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ONE OP THEM. 


BY 


CHARLES OLEVER. 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY PHIZ. 


BOSTON: 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY. 
1904. 



SSniiiersttg ^resg: 

John Wilson and Son, Cambridge, U.S*A. 


^ \ V ^ L 



TO THE 

RIGHT HONOURABLE JAMES WHITESIDE, M.P., 

ETC., ETC., ETC. 


My dear Whiteside, — Amongst all the friends I can count 
over in my own country, and from whom space and the acci- 
dents of life have separated, and may separate me to the last, 
there is not “ One of Them ” for whom I entertain a sincerer 
regard, united with a higher hope, than yourself; and it is in 
my pride to say so openly, that I ask you to accept of this 
dedication from 

Your attached friend. 


Spezia, December 20, 1860. 


CHARLES LEVER. 















A WORD OF APOLOGY FOR MY 
TITLE. 


Before I begin my story, let me crave my reader’s indul- 
gence for a brief word of explanation, for which I know no 
better form than a parable. 

There is an Eastern tale — I forget exactly where or by 
whom told — of a certain poor man, who, being in extreme 
distress, and sorely puzzled as to how to eke out a livelihood, 
bethought hiiii to give out that he was a great magician, 
endowed with the most marvellous powers, amongst others, 
that of tracing out crime, and detecting the secret history of 
all guilty transactions. Day after day did he proclaim to the 
world his wonderful gifts, telling his fellow-citizens what a 
remarkable man was amongst them, and bidding them thank 
Destiny for the blessing of his presence. Now, though the 
story has not recorded whether their gratitude was equal to 
the occasion, we are informed that the Caliph heard of the 
great magician, and summoned him to his presence, for it 
chanced just at the moment that the royal treasury had been 
broken into by thieves, and gems of priceless value carried 
away. 

“ Find out these thieves for me,” said the Caliph, “ or with 
your own head pay the penalty of their crime.” 

“Grant me but forty days, O king,” cried he, “and I 
will bring them all before you.” 

So saying, he went away, but was no sooner at home and 
in the solitude of his own house than he tore his beard, beat 
his breast, and, humbling his head to the ground, cried out. 


Vlll 


A WORD OF APOLOGY FOR MY TITLE. 


“ Son of a burned father was I, not to be content with 
poverty and a poor existence ! Why did I ever pretend to 
gifts that I had not, or dare to tell men that I possessed 
powers that were not mine? See to what vainglory and 
boastfulness have brought me. In forty days I am to die 
an ignominious death ! ” 

Thus grieving and self-accusing, the weary hours passed 
over, and the night closed in only to find him in all the 
anguish of his sorrow ; nor was it the least poignant of his 
sufferings, as he bethought him that already one of his forty 
days was drawing to its close, for in his heart he had des- 
tined this period to enjoyment and self-indulgence. 

Now, though aspiring to the fame of a magician, so little 
learning did he possess, that it was only by recourse to a 
contrivance he was able to reckon the days as they passed, 
and calculate how much of life remained to him. The ex- 
pedient he hit upon was to throw each night into an olive- jar 
a single date, by counting which at any time he could know 
how many days had elapsed. 

While his own conscience smote him bitterly for the foolish 
deception he had practised, there were, as it happened, 
others who had consciences too, and somewhat more heavily 
charged than his own. These were the thieves who had 
stolen the treasure, and who firmly believed in the magician’s 
powers. Now, it so chanced that on the very instant he 
was about to throw his first date into the jar, one of the 
robbers had crept noiselessly to the window, and, peering 
through the half-closed shutter, watched what was doing 
within. Dimly lighted by a single lamp, the chamber was 
half shrouded in a mysterious gloom ; still, the figure of a 
man could be descried, as, with gestures of sorrow and suffer- 
ing, he approached a great jar in the middle of the room and 
bent over it. It was doubtless an incantation, and the robber 
gazed with all eagerness; but what was his terror as he 
beheld the man drop something into the jar, exclaiming, as 
he did so, in a loud voice, “ Let Allah be merciful to us ! 


A WORD OF APOLOGY FOR MY TITLE. ix 

there is one of them ! ” With the speed of a guilty heart he 
hurried back to his confederates, saying, “ I had but placed 
my eye to the chink, when he knew that I was there, and 
cried, ‘ Ha ! there is one of them ! ’ ” 

It is not necessary that I should go on to tell how each 
night a new thief stole to the window at the same critical 
moment to witness the same ceremony, and listen to the 
same terrible words ; as little needful to record how, when 
the last evening of all closed in, and the whole robber baud 
stood trembling without, the magician dropped upon his 
knees, and, throwing in the last of his dates, cried out, 
‘ ‘ There are all of them ! ” The application of the story is 
easy. You, good reader, are the Caliph, — the mock magician 
is myself. Our tale will probably, from time to time, re- 
veal who may be 


“One op Them.” 




CONTENTS TO VOL. I, 


Chapter Page 

1. A Piazza after Sunset 1 

II. The Villa Caprini 9 

III. Travelling Acquaintance 16 

IV. Visitors 22 

V. Accidents and their Consequences .... 28 ' 

VI. The Member for Inchabogue 39 

VII. Mrs. Penthony Morris 48 

VIII. Port-na-Whapple 60 

IX. A Dinner at the Rectory , 77 

X. The Laboratory 89 

XI. A Remittance 100 

XII. A Fellow-Traveller on the Coach. . . . 110 

XIII. How THEY Lived at the Villa 116 ' 

XIV. The Billiard-Room 125 

XV. Mrs. Penthony Morris and her Writing- 

Table 136 

XVI. A Sick-Room 147 

XVII. A Master and Man 157 

XVIII. Mrs. Morris as Counsellor 171 

XIX. Joe’s Diplomacy 179 

XX. 'A Dreary Forenoon 188 

XXI. Mr. O’Shea upon Politics, and Things in 

General 197 

XXn. The Public Servant Abroad 208 

XXIII. Broken Ties ............ 215 


xii ' CONTENTS. 

Chapteb Page 

XXIV. A Day in Early Spring 228 

XXV. Behind the Scenes 238 

XXVI. A Dark Remembrance 249 

XXVII. The Fragment of a Letter 273 

XXVIII. The O’Shea at his Lodgings 276 

XXIX. Old Letters 285 

XXX. Twist, Trover, and Co 294 

XXXI. In the Toils 304 

XXXII. A Drive round the Cascine at Florence 316 

XXXIII. Sir William in the Gout 328 

XXXIV. A Warm Discussion 340^ 

XXXV. Loo AND HER FATHER 348 

XXXVI. A Grave Scene in Light Company . . . 356 

XXXVII. Mr. Stocmar’s Visit 365 

XXXVIII. Very Outspoken on the World at Large 375 

XXXIX. From Clara 381 

XL. Quackinbossiana 388 

XLI. Quackinboss at Home 396 

XLII. A New Location 404 

XLIII. Bunkum viLLE 418 

XLIV. The Lecturer 425 

XLV. Of Bygones 431 

XLVI. The Doctor’s Narrative 436 

XL VII. A Happy Accident 446 

XLVIII. At Rome 452 

XLIX. The Palazzo Balbi 467 

L. Three Met Again 477 


CONTENTS TO YOL. II. 

♦ 

•Chapteb Page 

I. The Lone Villa on the Campagna .... 489 

II. A Dinner of Two 499 

III. Some Last Words 508 

IV. Found out 513 

V. The Manager’s Room at the “Regent’s” . 520 

VI. Mr. O’Shea at Baden 527 

VII. The Cottage near Bregenz 535 

VIII. Consultation 555 

IX. Words of Good Cheer 564 

X. The Letter from Alfred Layton .... 571 

XI. An Eager Guest 579 

XII. Conclusion 585 






ONE OF THEM 


CHAPTER I. 

A PIAZZA AFTER SUNSET. 

One of the most depressing and languid of all objects is the 
aspect of an Italian city in the full noon of a hot summer’s 
day. The massive buildings, fortress-like and stern, which 
show no touch of life and habitation ; the glaring streets, un- 
traversed by a single passer ; the wide piazza, staring vacantly 
in the broiling sun ; the shop doors closed, all evidencing the 
season of the siesta, seem all waiting for the hour when long 
shadows shall fall over the scorched pavement, and some air 
— faint though it be — of coming night recall the population 
to a semblance of active existence. 

With the air of a heated wayfarer, throwing open his coat 
to refresh himself, the city, at last, flings wide jalousie and 
shutter, and the half-baked inhabitant strolls forth to taste 
the bel fresco.” It is the season when nationalities are seen 
undisturbed by the presence of strangers. No travellers are 
now to be met with ; the heavy rumbling of the travelling- 
carriage no longer thunders over the massive causeway ; no 
postilion’s whip awakes the echoes of the Piazza ; no land- 
lord’s bell summons the eager household to the deep-arched 
doorway. It is the People alone are abroad, — that gentle 
Italian people, quiet-looking, inoffensive as they are. A sort 
of languid grace, a kind of dignified melancholy, pervades 
their demeanor, not at all unpleasing; and if the stranger 
come fresh from the west of Europe, with its busy turmoil 
and zeal of money-getting, he cannot but experience a 

1 


2 


ONE OF THEM. 


sense of calm and relief in the aspect of this easily 
satisfied and simple population. As the gloom of evening 
thickens the scene assumes more of life and movement. 
Vendors of cooling drinks, iced lemonades, and such-like, 
move along with gay flags flaunting over the brilliant urn- 
like copper that contains the refreshing beverage. Water- 
melons, in all the gushing richness of color, are at every 
corner, and piles of delicious fruit lie under the motley 
glare from many a paper lantern. Along the quays and 
bridges, on wide terraces or jutting bastions, wherever a 
breath of fresh air can be caught, crowds are seated, 
quietly enjoying the cool hour. Not a sound to be heard, 
save the incessant motion of the fan, which is, to this 
season, what is the cicala to the hot hour of noon. One 
cannot help feeling struck by the aspect of a people come 
thus to blend, like the members of one large family. 
There they are, of every age and of every condition, 
mingling with a sort of familiar kindliness that seems like 
a domesticity. 

In all this open-air life, with its inseparable equality, one 
sees the embers of that old fire which once kindled the Italian 
heart in the days of their proud and glorious Republics. They 
are the descendants of those who, in the self-same spots, dis- 
cussed the acts of Doges and Senates, haughty citizens of 
states, the haughtiest of all their age — and now — 

Whether come by chance or detained by some accident, 
two English travellers were seated one evening in front of 
the Cafe Doney, at Florence, in contemplation of such a 
scene as this, listlessly smoking their cigars ; they con- 
versed occasionally, in that “ staccato” style of conversation 
known to smokers. 

One was an elderly, fine-looking man, of that hale and 
hearty stamp we like to think English; the young fellow 
at his side was so exactly his counterpart in lineament 
and feature that none could doubt them to be father and 
son. It is true that the snow-white hair of one was rep- 
resented by a rich auburn in the other, and the quiet 
humor that lurked about the father’s mouth was concealed 
in the son’s by a handsome moustache, most carefully 
trimmed and curled. 


A PIAZZA AFTER SUNSET. 


3 


The cafe behind them was empty, save at a single table, 
where sat a tall, gaunt, yellow-cheeked man, counting and 
recounting a number of coins the waiter had given him in 
change, and of whose value he seemed to entertain mis- 
givings, as he held them up one by one to the light and 
examined them closely. In feature he was acute and pene- 
trating, with a mixture of melancholy and intrepidity pecu- 
liarly characteristic ; his hair was long, black, and wave- 
less, and fell heavily over the collar of his coat behind; 
his dress was a suit of coffee-colored brown, — coat, waist- 
coat, and trousers ; and even to his high-peaked conical 
hat the same tint extended. In age, he might have been 
anything from two-and-thirty to forty, or upwards. 

Attracted by an extraordinary attempt of the stranger to 
express himself in Italian to the waiter, the young English- 
man turned round, and then as quickly leaning down towards 
his father, said, in a subdued voice, “ Only think ; there he 
is again ! The Yankee we met at Meurice’s, at Spa, Ems, 
the Righi, Como, and Heaven knows where besides ! There 
he is talking Italian, own brother to his French, and with the 
same success too ! ” 

“Well, well, Charley,” said the other, good-humoredly, 
“it is not from an Englishman can come the sneer about 
such blunders. We make sad work of genders and declen- 
sions ourselves ; and as for our American, I rather like him, 
and am not sorry to meet him again.” 

“You surely cannot mean that. There’s not a fault of 
his nation that he does not, in one shape or other, represent ; 
and, in a word, he is a bore of the first water.” 

“ The accusation of boredom is one of those ugly confes- 
sions which ennui occasionally makes of its own inability to 
be interested. Now, for my part, the Yankee does not 
bore me. He is a sharp, shrewd man, always eager for 
information.” 

“ I ’d call him inquisitive,” broke in the younger. 

“There’s an honest earnestness, too, in his manner, — a 
rough vigor — ” 

O O 

“That recalls stump-oratory, and that sledge-hammer 
school so popular ‘down west.’” 

“It is because he is intensely American that I like him, 


4 


ONE OF THEM. 


Charley. I heartily respect the honest zeal with which he tells 
you that there are no institutions, no country, no people to 
be compared with his own.” 

“To me, the declaration is downright offensive; and I 
think there is a wide interval between prejudice and an 
enlightened patriotism. And when I hear an American 
claim for his nation a pre-eminence, not alone in courage, 
skill, and inventive genius, but in all the arts of civilization 
and refinement, I own I ’m at a loss whether to laugh at or 
leave him.” 

“Take my advice, Charley, don’t do either; or, if you 
must do one of the two, better even the last than the first.” 

Half stung by the tone of reproof in these words, and half 
angry with himself, perhaps, for his own petulance, the 
young man flung the end of his cigar away, and walked out 
into the street. Scarcely, however, had he done so when 
the subject of their brief controversy arose, and approached 
the Englishman, saying, with a drawling tone and nasal 
accent, “How is your health, stranger? I hope I see you 
pretty well?” 

“ Quite so, I thank you,” said the other cordially, as he 
moved a chair towards him. 

“You’ve made a considerable tour of it [pronounced 
“tower”] since we met, I reckon. You were bound to 
do Lombardy, and the silkworms, and the rice-fields, and the 
ancient cities, and the galleries, and such-like, — and you ’ve 
done them?” 

The Englishman bowed assent. 

“Well, sir, so have I, and it don’t pay. No, it don’t! 
It ’s noways pleasing to a man with a right sense of human 
natur’ to see a set of half-starved squalid loafers making 
a livin’ out of old tombs and ruined churches, with lying 
stories about martyrs’ thumb-nails and saints’ shin-bones. 
That won’t make a people, sir, will it?” 

“ But you must have seen a great deal to interest you, 
notwithstanding.” 

“ At Genoa, sir. I like Genoa, — they ’re a wide-awake, 
active set there. They ’ve got trade, sir, and they know it.” 

“ The city, I take it, is far more prosperous than pleas- 
ant, for strangers?” 


A PIAZZA AFTER SUNSET. 


5 


“Well now, sir, that ere remark of yours strikes me as 
downright narrow, and, if I might be permitted, I ’d call it 
mean illiberal. Why should you or I object to people who 
prefer their own affairs to the pleasant task of amusing us ? ” 

“ Nay, I only meant to observe that one might find more 
agreeable companions than men intently immersed in money- 
getting.” 

“Another error, and a downright English error too; for 
it ’s one of your national traits, stranger, always to abuse 
the very thing that you do best. What are you as a people 
but a hard-working, industrious, serious race, ever striving 
to do this a little cheaper, and that a little quicker, so as to 
beat the foreigner, and with all that you T1 stand up and say 
there ain’t nothing on this universal globe to be compared to 
loafing ! ” 

“ I would hope that you have not heard this sentiment 
from an Englishman.” 

“ Not in them words, not exactly in them terms, but from 
the same platform, stranger. Why, when you want to exalt 
a man for any great service to the state, you ain’t satisfied 
with making him a loafer, — for a lord is just a loafer, and 
no more nor no less, — but you make his son a loafer, and 
all his descendants forever. What would you say to a fellow 
that ‘had a fast trotter, able to do his mile, on a fair road, in 
two forty-three, who, instead of keeping him in full working 
condition, and making him earn his penny, would just turn 
him out in a paddock to burst himself with clover, and the 
same with all his stock, for no other earthly reason than that 
they were the best blood and bone to be found anywhere? 
There ain’t sense or reason in that, stranger, is there?” 

“I don’t think the parallel applies.” 

“Maybe not, sir; but you have my meaning; perhaps I 
piled the metaphor too high; but as John Jacob Byles says, 
‘ If the charge has hit you, it don’t signify a red cent what 
the wadding was made of.’ ” 

‘‘I must say I think you are less than just in your esti- 
mate of our men of leisure,” said the Englishman, mildly. 

“I ain’t sure of that, sir; they live too much together, 
like our people down South, and that ’s not the way to get rid 
of prejudices. They ’ve none of that rough-and-tumble with 


6 


ONE OF THEM. 


the world as makes men broad-minded and marciful and 
forgiving; and they come at last to that wickedest creed 
of all, to think themselves the superfine salt of the earth. 
Now, there ain’t no superfine salt peculiar to any rank or 
class. Human natur’ is good and bad everywhere, — ay, 
sir, I ’ll go further, I ’ve seen good in a Nigger! ” 

“I’m glad to hear you say so,” said the Englishman, 
repressing, but not without difficulty, a tendency to smile. 

“Yes, sir, there ’s good amongst all men, — even the 
Irish.” 

“I feel sorry that you should make them an extreme 
case.” 

“Well, sir,” said he, drawing a long breath, “they’re 
main ugly, — main ugly, that ’s a fact. Not that they can 
do us any mischief. Our constitution is a mill where 
there ’s never too much water, — the more power, the more 
we grind ; and even if the stream do come down somewhat 
stocked with snags and other rubbish upon it, the machine is 
an almighty smasher, and don’t leave one fragment sticking 
to the other when it gets a stroke at ’em. Have you never 
been in the States, stranger?” 

“Never. I have often planned such a ramble, but circum- 
stances have somehow or other always interfered with the 
accompl ishment. ” 

“Well, sir, you’re bound to go there, if only to correct 
the wrong impressions of your literary people, who dp 
nothing but slander and belie us.” 

“Not latterly, surely. You have nothing to complain of 
on the part of our late travellers.” 

“I won’t say that. They don’t make such a fuss about 
chewing and whittling, and the like, as the first fellows; 
but they go on a-sneering about political dishonesty, Yan- 
kee sharpness, and trade rogueries, that ain’t noways pleas- 
ing, — and, what ’s more, it ain’t fair. But as I say, sir, 
go and see for yourself, or, if you can’t do that, send your 
son. Isn’t that young man there your son? ” 

The young Englishman turned and acknowledged the 
allusion to himself by the coldest imaginable bow, and 
that peculiarly unspeculative stare so distinctive in his 
class and station. 


A PIAZZA AFTER SUNSET. 


7 


“I’m unreasonable proud to see you again, sir,” said the 
Yankee, rising. 

“Too much honor! ” said the other, stiffly. 

“No, it ain’t, — no honor whatever. It ’s a fact, though, 
and that ’s better. Yes, sir, I like you ! ” 

The young man merely bowed his acknowledgment, and 
looked even more haughty than before. It was plain, how- 
ever, that the American attached little significance to the 
disdain of his manner, for he continued in the same easy, 
unembarrassed tone, — 

“Yes, sir, I was at Lucerne that morning when you flung 
the boatman into the lake that tried to prevent your landing 
out of the boat. I saw how you buckled to your work, and 
I said to myself, ‘ There ’s good stuff there, though he looks 
so uncommon conceited and proud.’ ” 

“Charley is ready enough at that sort of thing,” said the 
father, laughing heartily; and, indeed, after a moment of 
struggle to maintain his gravity, the young man gave way 
and laughed too. 

The American merely looked from one to the other, half 
sternly, and as if vainly trying to ascertain the cause of 
their mirth. The elder Englishman was quick to see the 
awkwardness of the moment, and apply a remedy to it. 

“I was amused,” said he, good-humoredly, “at the men- 
tion of what had obtained for my son your favorable opinion. 
I believe ‘that it ’s only amongst the Anglo-Saxon races 
that pugnacity takes place as a virtue.” 

“Well, sir, if a man has n’t got it, it very little matters 
what other qualities he possesses. They say courage is a 
bull-dog’s property; but would any one like to be lower 
than a bull-dog? Besides, sir, it is what has made you 
great, and us greater.” 

There was a tone of defiance in this speech evidently 
meant to provoke a discussion, and the young man turned 
angrily round to accept the challenge, when a significant 
look from his father restrained him. With a few common- 
place observations dexterously thrown out, the old man con- 
trived to change the channel of conversation, and then, 
reminded by his watch of the lateness of the hour, he apolo- 
gized for a hasty departure, and took his leave. 


8 


ONE OE THEM. 


“Well, was I right?” said the young man, as he walked 
along at his father’s side. “Is he not a bore, and the worst 
of all bores too, — a quarrelsome one ? ” 

“I’m not so sure of that, Charley. It was plain he 
did n’t fancy our laughing so heartily, and wanted an ex- 
planation which he saw no means of asking for ; and it was, 
perhaps, as a sort of reprisal he made that boastful speech ; 
but I am deeply mistaken if there be not much to like and 
respect in that man’s nature.” 

“There may be some grains of gold in the mud of the 
Arno there, if any one would spend a life to search for 
them,” said the youth, contemptuously. And with this 
ungracious speech the conversation closed, and they walked 
on in silence. 


CHAPTER II. 


THE VILLA CAPRINI. 

It was a few days after the brief scene we have just recorded 
that the two Englishmen were seated, after sunset, on a little 
terraced plateau in front of an antiquated villa. As they 
are destined to be intimate acquaintances of our reader in 
this tale, let us introduce them by name, — Sir William 
Heathcote and his son Charles. 

With an adherence to national tastes which are rapidly 
fading away, they were enjoying their wine after dinner, and 
the spot they had selected for it was well chosen. From 
the terrace where they sat, a perfect maze of richly wooded 
glens could be seen, crossing and recrossing each other in 
every direction. From the depths of some arose the light 
spray of boiling mountain torrents; others, less wild in 
character, were marked by the blue smoke curling up from 
some humble homestead. Many a zigzag path of trellis- 
vines straggled up the hillsides, now half buried in olives, . 
now emerging in all the grotesque beauty of its own way- 
ward course. The tall maize and the red lucerne grew luxu- 
riously beneath the fig and the pomegranate, while here 
and there the rich soil, rent with heat, seemed unable to- 
conceal its affluence, and showed the yellow gourds and the 
melons bursting up through the fruitful earth. It was such 
a scene as at once combined Italian luxuriance with the ver- 
dant freshness of a Tyrol landscape, and of which the little 
territory that once called itself the Duchy of Lucca can boast 
many instances. 

As background to the picture, the tall mountains of Car- 
rara, lofty enough to be called Alps, rose, snow-capped and 
jagged in the distance, and upon their summits the last ra3"S 


10 


ONE OF THEM. 


of the setting sun now glowed with the ruddy brilliancy of 
a carbuncle. 

These Italian landscapes win one thoroughly from all other 
scenery, after a time. At first they seem hard and stern; 
there is a want of soft distances ; the eye looks in vain for 
the blended shadows of northern landscape, and that rustic 
character so suggestive of country life ; but in their clear 
distinctness, their marvellous beauty of outline, and in 
that vastness of view imparted by an atmosphere of cloud- 
less purity, there are charms indisputably great. 

As the elder Englishman looked upon this fair picture, he 
gave a faint sigh, and said : “ I was thinking, Charley, what 
& mistake we make in life in not seeking out such spots as 
these when the world goes well with us, and we have our 
minds tuned to enjoyment, instead of coming to them care- 
worn and weary, and when, at best, they only distract us 
momentarily from our griefs.” 

“And my thought,” said the younger, “was, what a 
blunder it is to come here at all. This villa life was only 
-endurable by your Italian noble, who came here once a year 
to squabble with his ‘ Fattore ’ and grind his peasants. He 
came to see that they gave him his share of oil and did n’t 
water his miserable wine ; he neither had society nor sport. 
As to our English country-house life, what can compare 
with it!” 

“Even that we have over-civilized, making it London in 
everything, — London hours, London company, topics, 
habits, tastes, all smacking of town life. Who, I ask you, 
thinks of his country existence, nowadays, as a period of 
quietness and tranquil enjoyment? Who goes back to the 
shade of his old elms to be with himself or some favorite 
author that he feels to like as a dear friend ? ” 

“No; but he goes for famous hunting and the best shoot- 
ing in Europe, it being no disparagement to either that he 
gets back at evening to a capital dinner and as good com- 
pany as he ’d find in town.” 

“May is of my mind,” said Sir William, half trium- 
phantly; “she said so last night.” 

“And she told me exactly the reverse this morning,” said 
the younger. “She said the monotony of this place was 


THE VILLA CAPRINI. 


11 


driving her mad. Scenery, she remarked, without people, 
is pretty much what a panorama is, compared to a play.” 

“May is a traitress; and here she comes to make confes- 
sion to which of us she has been false,” said Sir William, 
he arose to place a chair for the young girl who 
now came towards them. 

“I have heard you both, gentlemen,” said she, with a 
saucy toss of her head, “and I should like to hear why I 
should not agree with each and disagree afterwards, if it so 
pleased me.” 

“Oh! if you fall back upon prerogative — ” began Sir 
William. 

“I have never quitted it. It is in the sovereignty of my 
woman’s will that I reconcile opinions seemingly adverse, 
and can enjoy all the splendors of a capital and all the 
tameness of a village. I showed you already how I could 
appreciate Paris; I mean now to prove how charmed I can 
be with the solitudes of Marlia.” 

“Which says, in plain English,” said the young man, 
“that you don’t care for either.” 

“Will you condescend to be a little more gallant than my 
cousin, sir,” said she, turning to Sir William, “and at least 
give me credit for having a mind and knowing it?” 

There was a pettish half-seriousness in her tone that made 
it almost impossible to say whether she was amused or 
angry, and to this also the changeful expression of her beau- 
tiful features contributed ; for, though she smiled, her dark 
gray eyes sparkled like one who invited a contradiction. 
In this fleeting trait was the secret of her nature. May 
Leslie was one of Fortune’s spoiled children, — one of those 
upon whom so many graces and good gifts had been lav- 
ished that it seemed as though Fate had exhausted her 
resources, and left herself no more to bestow. 

She had surpassing beauty, youth, health, high spirits, and 
immense wealth. By her father’s will she had been con- 
tracted in marriage with her distant relative, Charles Heath- 
cote, with the proviso that if, on attaining the age of 
nineteen, she felt averse to the match, she should forfeit 
a certain estate in Wales which had once belonged to the 
Heathcotes, and contained the old residence of that family. 


12 


ONE OF THEM. 


Sir William and his son had been living in the retirement 
of a little German capital, when the tidings of this ward- 
ship reached them. A number of unfortunate speculations 
had driven the baronet into exile from England, and left 
him with a pittance barely sufficient to live in the strictest 
economy. To this narrow fortune Charles Heathcote had 
come back, after serving in a most extravagant Hussar 
regiment, and taking his part in an Indian campaign; and 
the dashing soldier first heard, as he lay wounded in 
the hospital, that he must leave the service, and retire into 
obscurity. If it had not been for his strong affection for 
his father, Charles would have enlisted as a private soldier, 
and taken his chance for future distinction, but he could 
not desert him at such a moment, nor separate himself from 
that share of privation which should be henceforth borne 
in common; and so he came back, a bronzed, brave soldier, 
true-hearted and daring, and, if a little stern, no more so 
than might be deemed natural in one who had met such a 
heavy reverse on the very threshold of life. 

Father and son were at supper in a little arbor of their 
garden near Weimar, when the post brought them the start- 
ling news that May Leslie, who was then at Malta, would be 
at Paris in a few days, where she expected to meet them. 
When Sir William had read through the long letter of the 
lawyer, giving an account of the late General Leslie’s will, 
with its strange condition, he handed it to his son, without 
a word. 

The young man read it eagerly; his color changed once 
or twice as he went on, and his face grew harder and sterner 
ere he finished. “Do you mean to accept this wardship? 
asked he, hurriedly. 

“There are certain reasons for which I cannot decline it, 
Charley,” said the other, mildly. All my life long I have 
been Tom Leslie’s debtor, in gratitude, for as noble a 
sacrifice as ever man made. We were both suitors to your 
mother, brother officers at the time, and well received in 
her father’s house. Leslie, however, was much better looked 
on than myself, for I was then but a second son, while he 
was the heir of a very large estate. There could not have 
been a doubt that his advances would have outweighed mine 


THE VILLA CAPRINL 


13 


in a father and mother’s estimate, and as he was madly in 
love, there seemed nothing to prevent his success. Find- 
ing, however, in a conversation with your mother, that her 
affections were mine, he not only relinquished the place in 
my favor, but, although most eager to purchase his troop, 
suffered me, his junior, to pass over his head, and thus 
attain the rank which enabled me to marry. Leslie went 
to India, where he married, and we never met again. It 
was only some seven or eight months ago I read of his being 
named governor of a Mediterranean dependency, and the 
very next paper mentioned his death, when about to leave 
Calcutta.” 

“ It is, then, most probable that, when making this will, 
he had never heard of our reverses in fortune?” said the 
young man. 

“ It is almost certain he had not, for it is dated the very 
year of that panic which ruined me.” 

“And, just as likely, might never have left such a will, 
had he known our altered fortunes ? ” 

“I ’m not so sure of that. At all events, I can answer 
for it that no change in our condition would have made Tom 
Leslie alter the will, if he had once made it in our favor.” 

“I have no fancy for the compact, read it how you may,” 
said Charles, impatiently; “nor can I say which I like 
least, — the notion of marrying a woman who is bound to 
accept me, or accepting a forfeit to release her from the 
obligation.” 

“I own it is — embarrassing,” said Sir William, after a 
moment’s hesitation in choosing a suitable word. 

“A downright indignity, I’d call it,” said the other, 
warmly, “and calculated to make the man odious in the 
woman’s eyes, whichever lot befell him.” 

“The wardship must be accepted, at all events,” said Sir 
William, curtly, as he arose and folded up the letter. 

“You are the best judge of that; for if it depended upon 
me — ” 

“ Come, come, Charley,” said Sir William, in his tone of 
habitual kindness, “this life of quiet obscurity and poverty 
that we lead here has no terrors for me. I have been so 
long away from England that if I went back to-morrow I 


•14 


ONE OF THEM. 


should look in vain for any of my old companions. I have 
forgotten the habits and the ways of home, and I have 
learned to submit myself to twenty things here which would 
be hardships elsewhere, but I don’t like to contemplate the 
same sort of existence for you : I want to speculate on a 
very different future; and if — if — Nay, you need not feel 
so impatient at a mere conjecture.” 

“Well, to another point,” said the young man, hastily. 
“We have got, as you have just said, to know that we can 
live very comfortably and contentedly here, looking after 
our celery and seakale, and watching our silver groschen ; 
are you so very certain that you ’d like to change all this 
life, and launch out into an expensive style of living, to suit 
the notions of a rich heiress, and, what is worse again, to 
draw upon her resources to do it ? ” 

“I won’t deny that it will cost me severely; but, until we 
see her and know her, Charley, until we find out whether she 
may be one whose qualities will make our sacrifices easy — ” 

“Would you accept this charge if she were perfectly 
portionless, and without a shilling in the world?” 

“If she were Tom Leslie’s daughter, do you mean? ” 

“Ay, any one’s daughter? ” 

“To be sure I would, boy; and if I were only to consult 
my own feelings in the matter, I ’d say that I ’d prefer this 
alternative to the other.” 

“Then I have no more to say,” said the son, as he walked 
away. 

Within a month after this conversation, the little cottage 
was shut up, the garden wicket closed with a heavy padlock, 
and to any chance inquirer after its late residents, the 
answer returned was, that their present address was Place 
Vendome, Paris. 

“Tell me your company,” said the old adage; but, alas! 
the maxim had reference to other habits than our present- 
day ones. With what company now does not every man 
mix? Bishops discuss crime and punishment with ticket- 
of-leave men; fashionable exquisites visit the resorts of 
thieves; “swell people” go to hear madrigals at Covent 
Garden; and, as for the Ring, it is equally the table-land to 
peer and pickpocket. If, then, you would hazard a guess 


THE VILLA CAPRINL 


15 


as to a man’s manners nowadays, ask not his company, 
but his whereabouts. Run your eye over the addresses of 
that twice-remanded insolvent, ranging from Norfolk Street, 
Strand, to Berkeley Square, with Boulogne-sur-Mer, St. 
John’s Wood, Cadiz, the New Cut, Bermondsey, and the 
Edgware Road, in the interval, and say if you cannot, even 
out of such slight materials, sketch off his biography. 

“The style is the man,” says the adage; and we might 
with as much truth say, “the street is the man.” In his 
locality is written his ways and means, his manners, his 
morals, his griefs, joys, and ambitions. We live in an age 
prolific in this lesson. Only cast a glance at the daily sac- 
rifices of those who, to reside within the periphery of great- 
ness, submit to a crushing rent and a comfortless abode. 

Think of him who, to date his note “ Street, Berkeley 

Square,” denies himself honest indulgence, all because the 
world has come to believe that certain spots are the “Regions 
of the Best,” and that they who live there must needs be 
that grand English ideal, — respectable. 

Dear me, what unheard-of sacrifices does it demand of 
humble fortunes to be Respectable! what pinching and 
starving and saving! what self-denial and what striving! 
what cheerless little dinner-parties to other Respectables! 
what dyeing of black silks and stoving of old ostrich feath- 
ers ! And how and wherefore have we wandered off in this 
digression! Simply to say that Sir William Heathcote 
and his ward were living in a splendid quarter of Paris, and 
after that rambled into Germany, and thence to Como and 
down to Rome, very often delighted with their choice of 
residence, enjoying much that was enjoyable, but still — 
shall we own it? — never finding the exact place they seemed 
to want, nor exactly the people with whom they were will- 
ing to live in intimacy. They had been at Baden in the 
summer, at Como in the late autumn, at Rome in the winter, 
at Castellamare in the spring, — everywhere in its season, 
and yet somehow — And so they began to try that last 
resource of bored people, — places out of the season and 
places out of common resort, — and it was thus that they 
found themselves at Florence in June, and in Marlia in 
July. 


CHAPTER III. 


TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE. 

About the same hour of the same evening which we have 
just chronicled, a group of persons sat under some spread- 
ing chestnut-trees beside a brawling little rivulet at the 
Bagni de Lucca. They were travellers, chance acquaint- 
ances thrown together by the accidents of the road, and 
entertained for each other those varied sentiments of like 
and dislike, those mingled distrusts, suspicions, and be- 
liefs, which, however unconsciously to ourselves, are part 
of the education travelling impresses, and which, when 
long persevered in, make up that acute but not always ami- 
able individual we call “an old traveller.” 

We are not about to present them all to our reader, and 
will only beg to introduce to his notice a few of the notabil- 
ities then present. Flace aux dames! then; and, first of 
all, we beg attention to the dark-eyed, dark-haired, and 
very delicately featured woman, who, in half-mourning, and 
with a pretty but fantastically costumed girl beside her, is 
working at an embroidery-frame close to the river. She 
is a Mrs. Penthony Morris, the wife or the widow — both 
opinions prevail — of a Captain Penthony Morris, killed 
in a duel, or in India, or alive in the Marshalsea, or at 
Baden-Baden, as may be. She is striking-looking, admi- 
rably dressed, has a most beautiful foot, as you may see 
where it rests upon the rail of the chair placed in front of 
her, and is, altogether, what that very smartly dressed, 
much-beringed, and essenced young gentleman near her has 
already pronounced her, “a stunning fine woman.” He is 
a Mr. Mosely, one of those unhappy young Londoners whose 
family fame is ever destined to eclipse their own gentility, 
for he is immediately recognized, and drawlingly do men 







f’rfmiai 


WMi 


mm 









4 


TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE. 


17 


inquire some twenty times a day, “Ain’t he a son of Trip 
and Mosely’s, those fellows in Bond Street?” Unhappy 
Trip and Mosely! why have you rendered yourselves so 
great and illustrious? why have your tasteful devices in 
gauze, your “sacrifices ” in challis, your “last new things in 
grenadine,” made such celebrity around you, that Tom 
Mosely, “out for his travels,” can no more escape the shop 
than if he were languishing at a customer over a “sweet 
article in white tarlatan ” ? In the two comfortable arm- 
chairs side by side sit two indubitable specimens, male and 
female, of the Anglo-Saxon family, — Mr. Morgan, that 
florid man, wiping his polished bald head, and that fat lady 
fanning with all her might. Are they not English? They 
are “out,” and, judging from their recorded experiences, 
only dying to be “in” again. “Such a set of cheating, 
lying, lazy set of rascals are these Italians ! Independence, 
sir; don’t talk to me of that humbug! What they want is 
English travellers to fleece and English women to marry.” 
Near to these, at full length, on two chairs, one of which 
reclines against a tree at an angle of about forty degrees, 
sits our Yankee acquaintance, whom we may as well present 
by his name, Leonidas Shaver Quackinboss ; he is smoking 
a “Virginian ” about the size of a marshal’s bMon, and 
occasionally sipping at a “cobbler,” which with much pains 
he has compounded for his own drinking. Various others 
of different ranks and countries are scattered about, and in 
the centre of all, at a small table with a lamp, sits a short, 
burly figure, with a strange mixture of superciliousness and 
drollery in his face, as though there were a perpetual con- 
test in his nature whether he would be impertinent or amus- 
ing. This was Mr. Gorman O’Shea, Member of Parlia- 
ment for Inchabogue, and for three weeks a Lord of the 
Treasury when O’Connell was king. 

Mr. O’Shea is fond of public speaking. He has a taste 
for proposing, or seconding, or returning thanks that verges 
on a passion, so that even in a private dinner with a friend 
he has been known to arise and address his own companion 
in a set speech, adorned with all the graces and flowers of 
post-prandial eloquence. Upon the present occasion he 
has been, to his great delight, deputed to read aloud to the 

2 


18 


ONE OF THEM. 


company from that magic volume by which the Continent 
is expounded to Englishmen, and in whose pages they are 
instructed in everything, from passports to pictures, and 
drilled in all the mysteries of money, posting, police regu- 
lations, domes, dinners, and Divine service by a Clergyman 
of the Established Church. In a word, he is reciting John 
Murray. 

To understand the drift of the present meeting, we ought 
to mention that, in the course of a conversation started that 
day at the table d’hote^ it was suggested that such of the 
company as felt disposed might make an excursion to 
Marlia to visit a celebrated villa there, whose gardens alone 
were amongst the great sights of Northern Italy. All had 
heard of this charming residence; views of it had been seen 
in every print-shop. It had its historical associations from 
a very early period. There were chambers where murders 
had been committed, conspiracies held, confederates poi- 
soned. King and Kaiser had passed the night there; all of 
which were duly and faithfully chronicled in “John,” and 
impressively recited by Mr. Gorman O’Shea in the richest 
accents of his native Doric. “There you have it now,” 
said he, as he closed the volume; “and I will say, it has n’t 
its equal anywhere for galleries, terraces, carved architraves, 
stuccoed ceilings, and frescos, and all the other balderdash 
peculiar to these places.” 

“Oh, Mr. O’Shea, what profanation!” interposed Mrs. 
Morris; “walls immortalized by Giotto and Cimabue! ” 

“Haven’t they got stunning names of their own?” broke 
in Quackinboss. “That ’s one of the smartest dodges to 
secure fame. You must be something out of the common. 
There was a fellow up at Syracuse townland, Measles, 
North Carolaina, and his name was Flay Harris; they 
called him Flea — ” 

“That ceiling of the great hall was a work of Guido’s, 
you said ? ” inquired Mrs. Morris. 

“A pupil of Guido’s, a certain Simone Affretti, who 
afterwards made the designs for the Twelve Apostles in the 
window of the chapter- room at Sienna,” read out Mr. 
O’Shea. 

“Who can vouch for one word of all that, sir?” burst in 


TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE. 


19 


Mr. Morgan, with a choleric warmth. “ Who is to tell we, 
sir, that you did n’t write that, or Peter Noakes, or John 
Murray himself, if there be such a man.” 

“I can vouch for the last,” said a pale, gentle-looking 
young fellow, who was arranging the flies in a fishing-book 
under a tree at a little distance. “If it will relieve you 
from any embarrassments on the score of belief, I can 
assist you so far.” 

If there was a faint irony in this speech, the mild look of 
the speaker and his softened accents made it seem of the 
very faintest, and so even the bluff Mr. Morgan himself 
appeared to acknowledge. 

“As you say so, Mr. Layton, I will consent to suppose 
there is such a man; not that the fact, in the slightest 
degree, touches my original proposition.” 

“Certainly not, Tom,” chimed in Mrs. Morgan, in a thick 
voice, like one drowning. 

“But if you doubt Guido, you may doubt Raphael, Titian, 
Michael Angelo,” burst in Mrs. Morris, with a holy terror 
in her voice. 

“Well, ma’am, I’m capable of all that — and worse.” 

What that “worse” was there is no saying, though pos- 
sibly Mr. Mosely was trying to guess at it in the whisper 
he ventured to Mrs. Morris, and which made that lady smile 
incredulously. 

“I now, sir, rise to put the original motion,” said 
O’Shea, assuming that parliamentary tone which scandal 
pretended he displayed everywhere but in the House; ‘‘is 
it the opinion of this committee that we should all go and 
visit the Villa Caprini? ” 

“Are we quite sure it is to be seen?” interposed Mr. 
Layton; “it may be occupied, and by persons who have no 
fancy to receive strangers.” 

“The observation strikes me as singularly narrow and 
illiberal, sir,” burst in Morgan, with warmth. “Are we of 
the nineteenth century to be told that any man — I don’t 
care how he calls himself — has a vested right in the sight or 
inspection of objects devised and designed and completed 
centuries before he was born?” 

“Well put, Tom, — remarkably well put,” smothered out 
Mrs. Morgan. 


20 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Will you say, sir,” assumed he, thus cheered on to 
victory, — “will you say, sir, that if these objects — fres- 
cos, bas-reliefs, or whatever other name you give them — 
have the humanizing influence you assume for them, — 
which, by the way, I am quite ready to dispute at another 
opportunity with you or that other young gentleman yon- 
der, whose simpering sneer would seem to disparage my 
sentiment — ” 

“If you mean me, sir,” took up Mr. Mosely, “I wasn’t 
so much as attending to one word you said.” 

“No, Tom, certainly not,” burst in Mrs. Morgan, answer- 
ing with energy some sudden ejaculated purpose of her 
wrathy spouse. 

“I simply meant to say,” interposed Layton, mildly, 
“that such a visit as we propose might be objected to, or 
conceded in a way little agreeable to ourselves.” 

“A well-written note, a gracefully worded request, which 
nobody could do better than Mr. Alfred Layton — ” began 
Mrs. Morris, when a dissenting gesture from that gentleman 
stopped her. “Or, perhaps,” continued she, “Mr. Gorman 
O’Shea would so far assist our project? ” 

“My motion is to appear at the bar of the house, — I 
mean at the gate-lodge, — sending in our names, with a 
polite inquiry to know if we may see the place,” said Mr. 
O’Shea. 

“Well, stranger, I stand upon your platform,” chimed in 
Quackinboss; “I ’m in no manner of ways ‘ posted ’ up in 
your Old World doings, but I ’d say that you ’ve fixed the 
question all straight.” 

“Show-places are show-places; the people who take them 
know it,” blurted out Mr. Morgan. “Ay, and what ’s more, 
they ’re proud of it.” 

“They are, Tom,” said his wife, authoritatively. 

“If you ’d give me one of them a present, for the living 
in it, I ’d not take it. No, sir, I ’d not,” reiterated Morgan, 
with a fierce energy. “What is a man in such a case, sir, 
but a sort of appraiser, a kind of agent to show off his own 
furniture, telling you to remark that cornice, and not to 
forget that malachite chimney-piece? ” 

“Very civil of him, certainly,” said Layton, in his low, 


TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE. 21 

quiet voice, which at the same time seemed to quiver with 
a faiut irony. 

“No, sir, not civil, only boastful; mere purse-pride, 
nothing more.” 

“Nothing, Tom, — absolutely nothing.” 

“What’s before the house this evening, — the debate 
looks animated? ” said a fine bright-eyed boy of about four- 
teen, who lounged carelessly on Layton’s shoulder as he 
came up. 

“It was a little scheme to visit the Villa Caprini, my 
Lord,” said Mosely, not sorry to have the opportunity of 
addressing himself to a person of title. 

“How jolly, eh, Alfred? What say you to the plan?” 
said the boy, merrily. 

Layton answered something, but in a tone too low to be 
overheard. 

“Oh, as to that,” replied the boy, quickly, “if he be an 
Englishman who lives there, surely some of us must know 
him.” 

“The very remark I was about to make, my Lord,” smiled 
in Mrs. Morris. 

“Well, then, we agree to go there; that ’s the main thing,” 
said O’Shea. “Two carriages, I suppose, will hold us; 
and, as to the time, shall we say to-morrow ? ” 

To-morrow was unanimously voted by the company, who 
now set themselves to plot the details of the expedition, 
amidst which not the least knotty was, who were to be the 
fellow-travellers with Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, a post of 
danger assuredly not sought for with any heroic intrepidity, 
while an equally eager intrigue was on foot about securing 
the presence of the young Marquis of Agincourt and his 
tutor, Mr. Layton. The ballot, however, routed all previous 
machinations, deciding that the young peer was to travel 
with the Morgans and Colonel Quackinboss, an announce- 
ment which no deference to the parties themselves could 
prevent being received with a blank disappointment, except 
by Mr. Layton, who simply said, — 

“We shall take care to be in time, Mrs. Morgan.” And 
then, drawing his pupil’s arm within his own, strolled neg- 
ligently away. 


CHAPTER IV. 


VISITORS. 

“I FORETOLD all this,” said Charles Heathcote, peevishly, 
as a servant presented a number of visiting-cards with a 
polite request from the owners to be allowed to visit the 
villa and its gardens. “I often warned you of the inflic- 
tion of inhabiting one of these celebrated places, which 
our inquisitive countrymen will see and their wives will 
write about.” 

“Who are they, Charley?” said May, gayly. “Let us 
see if we may not know some of them.” 

“Know them. Heaven forbid! Look at the equipages 
they have come in ; only cast an eye at the two leathern 
conveniences now before the door, and say, is it likely that 
they contain any acquaintances of ours ? ” 

“How hot they look, broiling down there! But who are 
they, Charley?” 

“Mrs. Penthony Morris, — never heard of her; Mr. 
Algernon Mosely, — possibly the Bond Street man ; Mr. 
and Mrs. Thomas Rice Morgan, of Plwmnwrar, — however 
that be pronounced ; Mr. Layton and friend, — discreet 
friend, who will not figure by name ; Mr. Gorman O’Shea, 
by all the powers ! and, as I live, our Yankee again ! ” 

“ Not Quackinboss, surely?” broke in Sir William, good- 
humoredly. 

“Yes. There he is : ‘ U. S. A., Colonel Leonidas Shaver 
Quackinboss ; ’ and there ’s the man, too, with his coat on 
his arm, on that coach-box.” 

“I’ll certainly vote for my Transatlantic friend,” said 
the Baronet, “ and consequently for any party of which he is 
a member.” 

“ As for me! ” cried May, — “ I’ve quite a curiosity to 
see him ; not to say that it would be downright churlishness 


VISITORS. 


23 


to refuse any of our countrymen the permission thus asked 
for.” 

“Be it so. I only stipulate for not playing cicerone to 
our amiable visitors ; and the more surely to escape such an 
indignity, I ’m off till dinner.” 

“ Let Fenton wait on those gentlemen,” said the Baronet, 
“ and go round with them through the house and the grounds. 
Order luncheon also to be ready.” There was a little, a 
very little, irritation, perhaps, in his voice, but May’s pleas- 
ant smile quickly dispelled the momentary chagrin, and his 
good-humored face was soon itself again. 

If I have not trespassed upon my reader’s patience by 
minute descriptions of the characters I have introduced to 
him, it is in the expectation that their traits are such as, 
lying lightly on the surface, require little elucidation. Nor 
do I ask of him to bestow more attention to their features 
than he would upon those of travelling acquaintances with 
whom it is his fortune to journey in company for a brief 
space. 

Strange enough, indeed, is that intimacy of travelling ac- 
quaintanceship ! — familiar without friendship, frank with- 
out being cordial. Curious pictures of life might be made 
from these groups thrown accidentally together in a steam- 
boat or railroad, at the gay watering-place, or the little 
fishing-village in the bathing-season. 

How free is all the intercourse of 'those who seem to have 
taken a vow with themselves never to meet each other again ! 
With what humorous zest do they enjoy the oddities of this 
one, or the eccentricities of that, making up little knots and 
cliques, to be changed or dissolved within the day, and 
actually living on the eventualities of the hour, for their 
confidences! The contrasts that would repel in ordinary 
life, the disparities that would discourage, have actually in- 
vited intimacy; and people agree to associate, even famil- 
iarly, with those whom, in the recognized order of their 
daily existence, they would have as coldly repelled. 

There was little to bind those together whom we have 
represented as seated under the chestnut-trees at the Bagni 
de Lucca. They entertained their suspicions and distrusts 
and misgivings of each other to a liberal extent ; they wasted 


24 


ONE OF THEM. 


no charities in their estimate of each other ; and wherever 
posed by a difficulty, they did not lend to the interpretation 
any undue amount of generosity ; nay, they even went 
further, and argued from little peculiarities of dress, manner, 
and demeanor, to the whole antecedents of him they criti- 
cised, and took especial pains in their moments of confidence 

to declare that they had only met Mr. for the first time 

at Ems, and never saw Mrs. “ till they were overtaken 

by the snow-storm on the Splligen.” 

Such-like was the company who now, headed by the ob- 
sequious butler, strolled leisurely through the spacious 
saloons of the Villa Caprini. 

Who is there, in this universal vagabondage, has not 
made one of such groups? Where is the man that has not 
strolled, “ John Murray ” in hand, along his Dresden, his 
Venice, or his Rome ; staring at ceilings, and gazing ruefully 
at time-discolored frescos, — grieved to acknowledge to his 
own heart how little he could catch of a connoisseur’s enthu- 
siasm or an antiquarian’s fervor, — wondering within him- 
self wherefore he could not feel like that other man whose 
raptures he was reading, and with sore misgivings that some 
nice sense had been omitted in his nature? Wonderfully 
poignant and painful things are these little appeals to an 
inner consciousness. How far such sentiments were dis- 
tributed amongst those who now lounged and stared through 
salon and gallery, we must leave to the reader’s own appre- 
ciation. They looked pleased, convinced, and astonished, 
and, be it confessed, “bored” in turn; they were called 
upon to admire mucli they did not care for, and wonder at 
many things which did not astonish them ; they were often 
referred to histories which they had forgotten, if they ever 
knew them, and to names of whose celebrity they were 
ignorant ; and it was with a most honest sense of relief they 
saw themselves reach the last room of the suite, where a few 
cabinet pictures and some rare carvings in ivory alone 
claimed their attention. 

“ A ‘ Virgin and Child,’ by Murillo,” said the guide. 

“The ninth ‘Virgin and Child,* by all that’s holy! ” said 
Mr. 0‘Shea. “ The ninth we have seen to-day! ” 

“ The blue drapery, ladies and gentlemen,” continued the 


VISITORS. 


25 


inexorable describer, “ is particularly noticed. It is ‘ glazed *' 
in a manner only known to Murillo.” 

“I’m glad of it, and I hope the secret died with him, 
cried Mr. Morgan. “It looks for all the world like a 
bathing-dress.” 

“ The child squints. Don’t he squint? ” exclaimed Mosely. 

“Oh, for shame!” cried Mrs. Morris. “Mr. Layton i& 
quite shocked with your profane criticism.” 

“I did not hear it, I assure you,” said that gentleman^ 
as he arose from a long and close contemplation of a “ St. 
John,” by Salvator. 

“ ‘ St. John preaching in the Wilderness! ’ ” said Quack- 
inboss; “ too tame for my taste. He don’t seem to roll up 
his sleeves to the work, — does he ? ” 

“It’s not stump-oratory, surely?” said Layton, with a 
quiet smile. 

“Ain’t it, though! Well, stranger, I ’m in a con-sider- 
able unmixed error if it is not! You’d like to maintain 
that because a man does n’t rise up from a velvet cushion 
and lay his hand upon a grand railing, all carved with 
grotesque intricacies, all his sentiments must needs be 
commonplace and vulgar; but I ’m here to tell you, sir, that 
you ’d hear grander things, nobler things, and greater things 
from a moss-covered old tree-stump in a western pine- 
forest, by the mouth of a plain, hardy son of hard toil, than 
you ’ve often listened to in what you call your place in 
Parliament. Now, that ’s a fact ! ” 

There was that amount of energy in the way these words, 
were uttered that seemed to say, if carried further, the 
discussion might become contentious. 

Mr. Layton did not show any disposition to accept the 
gage of battle, but turned to seek for his pupil. 

“You’re looking for the Marquis, Mr. Layton,” asked 
Mrs. Morris, “ain’t you? I think you’ll find him in the 
shrubberies, for he said all this only bored him, and he ’d go- 
and look for a cool spot to smoke his cigar.” 

“That’s what it all comes to,” said Morgan, as soon as 
Layton had left the room ; “ that ’s tlie whole of it ! Yon 
pay a fellow — a ‘ double first ’ something or other from 
Oxford or Cambridge — five hundred a year to go abroad 


26 


ONE OF THEM. 


with your son, and all he teaches him is to choose a 
cheroot.” 

“ And smoke it, Tom,” chimed in Mrs. Morgan. 

“There ain’t no harm in a weed, sir, I hope?” said 
Quackinboss. “ The thinkers of this earth are most of ’em 
smoking men. What do you say, sir, to Humboldt, Niebuhr, 
your own Bulwer, and all our people, from John C. Colhoun 
to Daniel Webster? When a man puts a cigar between his 
lips, he as good as says, ‘ I ’m a-reflecting, — I’m not in no 
wa3^s to be broke in upon.’ It ’s his own fault, sir, if he 
does n’t think, for he has in a manner shut the door to keep 
out intruders.” 

“ Filthy custom ! ” muttered Mr. Morgan, with a garbled 
sentence, in which the word “ America ” was half audible. 

“What’s this he’s saying about eating, — this Italian 
fellow ? ” said Mr. Mosely, as a servant addressed him in a 
foreign language. 

“ It is a polite invitation to a luncheon,” said Mrs. Morris, 
modestly turning to her fellow-travellers for their decision. 

“Do any of us know our host?” asked Mr. 0‘Shea. 
“He is a Sir William Heathcote.” 

“ There was a director of the Central Trunk line of that 
name, who failed for half a million sterling,” whispered 
Morgan; “shouldn’t wonder if it were he.” 

“ All the more certain to give us a jolly feed, if he be ! ” 
chuckled Mosely. “ I vote we accept.” 

“That of course,” said Mrs. Morris. 

“Well, I know him, I reckon,” drawled out Quackinboss; 
“and I rayther suspect you owe this here politeness to 
my company. Yes, sir!” said he, half fiercely, to O’Shea, 
upon whose face a sort of incredulous smile was breaking, 
— “yes, sir!” 

“Being our own countryman, sir, — an Englishman, — I 
suspect,” said Mr. Morgan, with warmth, “ that the' hospi- 
tality has i)een extended to us on wider grounds.” 

“But why should we dispute about the matter at all?” 
mildly remarked Mrs. Morris. “ Let us say yes, and be 
grateful.” 

“ There ’s good sense in that,” chimed in Mosely, “ and I 
second it.” 


VISITORS. 


27 


“ Carried with unanimity,” said O’Shea, as, turning to the 
servant, he muttered something in broken French. 

“Well, I’m sure, I never!” mumbled Quackinboss to 
himself ; but what he meant, or to what new circumstance 
in his life’s experience he alluded, there is 'unhappily no 
explanation in this history ; but he followed the rest with 
a drooping head and an air of half-melancholy resignation 
that was not by any means unusual with him. 


CHAPTER V. 


ACCIDENTS AND THEIR CONSEQUENCES. 

When the young Marquis had made his escape from sight- 
seeing, and all its attendant inflictions, he was mainly bent 
on what he would himself have called being “ very jolly,” — 
that is to say, going his own way unmolested, strolling the 
road he fancied, and following out his own thoughts. Not 
that these same thoughts absolutely needed for their exercise 
or development any extraordinary advantages of solitude and 
retirement. He was no deep-minded sage, revolving worlds 
to come, — no poet, in search of the inspiring influence of 
nature, — no subtle politician, balancing the good and evil of 
some nice legislation. He was simply one of those many 
thousand England yearly turns out from her public schools 
of fine, dashing, free-hearted, careless boys, whose most 
marked feature in character is a w’holesome horror of all 
that is mean or shabby. Less than a year before, he had 
been a midshipman in her Majesty’s gun-boat “ Mosquito; ” 
the death of an elder brother had made him a Marquis, 
with the future prospect of several thousands a year. 

He had scarcely seen or known his brother, so he grieved 
very little for his loss, but he sorrowed sincerely over the 
change of fortune that called him from his sea life and 
companions to an “on-shore” existence, and instead of 
the gun-room and its gay guests, gave him the proprieties 
of station and the requirements of high rank. One of his 
guardians thought he ought to go into the Guards ; another 
advised a university ; both agreed upon a tutor, and Mr. 
Layton was found, a young man of small fortune, whose 
health, injured by over-reading for honors, required change 
of scene and rest. They had been companions for a very 
short time, but had, as the young Lord would have said^ 


ACCIDENTS AND THEIR CONSEQUENCES. 


29 


hit it off’^ admirably together; that is to say, partly 
from a just appreciation of his pupil, and partly out of a 
natural indolence of disposition, Layton interfered very 
little with him, gave him no troublesome tasks, imposed no 
actual studies, but contented himself with a careful watch 
over the boy’s disposition, a gentle, scarce perceptible cor- 
rection of his faults, and an honest zeal to develop any 
generous trait in his nature, little mindful of the disap- 
pointments his trustfulness must incur. Layton’s theory 
was that we all become wise too early in life, and that the 
world’s lessons should not be too soon implanted in a 
fresh unsuspecting nature. His system was not destined to 
be sorely tested in the present case. Harry Montserrat, 
Marquis of Agincourt, was a fortunate subject to illustrate 
it by. There never was a less suspectful nature ; he was 
frank, generous, and brave ; his faults were those of a hot, 
fiery temper, and a disposition to resent, too early and too 
far, what with a little patience he might have tolerated or 
even forgiven. 

The fault, however, which Layton was more particularly 
guardful against, was a certain over-consciousness of his 
"station and its power, which gradually began to show 
itself. 

In his first experience of altered fortune he did nothing 
but regret the past. It was no compensation to him for 
his careless sea-life, with all its pleasant associations, to 
become of a sudden invested with station, and treated with 
what he deemed over-deference. His reefer’s jacket was 
pleasanter “wear” than his padded frock-coat; the nimble 
boy who waited on him in the gun-room he thought a far 
smarter attendant than his obsequious valet ; and, with all 
his midshipman’s love of money-spending and squander- 
ing, the charm of extravagance was gone when there were 
no messmates to partake of it ; nor did his well-groomed 
nag and his well-dressed tiger suggest one-half the enjoy- 
ment he had often felt in a pony ride over the cliffs of 
Malta, with some others of his mess, where falls were rife 
and tumbles frequent. These, I say, were first thoughts, 
but gradually others took their places. The enervation of 
a life of ease began soon to show itself, and he felt the 


30 


ONE OF THEM. 


power of a certain station. In the allowance his guardian 
made him, he had a far greater sum at his disposal than he 
ever possessed before ; and in the title of his rank he soon 
discovered a magic that made the world beneath him very 
deferential and very obliging. 

“ That boy has been very ill brought up, Mr. Layton ; it 
will be your chief care to instil into him proper notions of the 
place he is to occupy one of these days,” said an old Earl, 
one of his guardians, and who was most eager that every 
trace of his sea life should be eradicated. 

“Don’t let him get spoiled, Layton, because he’s a 
Lord,” said the other guardian, who was an old Admiral. 
“ There’s good stuff in the lad, and it would be a thousand 
pities it should be corrupted.” 

Layton did his best to obey each ; but the task had its 
difficulties. As to the boy himself, the past and the present, 
the good and the evil, the frank young middy and the rich 
lordling, warred and contended in his nature ; nor w’as it 
very certain at any moment which would ultimately gain the 
mastery. Such, without dwelling more minutely, was he 
who now strolled along through shrubbery and parterre, half 
listless as to the way, but very happy withal, and very 
light-hearted. 

There was something in the scene that recalled England to 
his mind. There were more trees and turf than usually are 
found in Italian landscape, and there w^as, half hidden be- 
tween hazel and alder, a clear, bright river, that brawled and 
fretted over rocks, or deepened into dark pools, alternatel}^. 
How the circling eddies of a fast-flowing stream do appeal 
to young hearts ! what music do they hear in the gushing 
waters! what a story is there in that silvery current as it 
courses along through waving meadows, or beneath tall 
mountains, and along some dark and narrow gorge, emblem 
of life itself in its light and shade, its peaceful intervals and 
its hours of struggle and conflict. 

Forcing his way through the brushwood that guarded the 
banks, the boy gained a little ledge of rock, against which 
the current swept with violence, and then careered onward 
over a shallow, gravelly bed till lost in another bend of the 
stream. Just as Agincourt reached the rock, he spied a fish- 


ACCIDENTS AND THEIR CONSEQUENCES. 


31 


ing-rod deeply and securely fastened in one of its fissures, 
but whose taper point was now bending like a whip, and 
springing violently under the struggling effort of a strong 
fish. He was nothing of an angler. Of honest “Izaak’" 
and his gentle craft he absolutely knew nought, and of all 
the mysteries of hackles and green drakes he was utterly 
ignorant ; but his sailor instinct could tell him when a spar 
was about to break, and this he now saw to be the case. 
The strain was great, and every jerk now threatened to snap 
either line or rod. He looked hurriedly around him for the 
fisherman, whose interests were in such grave peril; but 
seeing no one near, he endeavored to withdraw the rod. 
While he thus struggled, for it was fastened with care, the 
efforts of the fish to escape became more and more violent, 
and at last, just as the boy had succeeded in his task, a 
strong spring from the fish snapped the rod near the tip, and 
at the same instant snatched it from the youth’s hand into 
the stream. Without a second’s hesitation, Agincourt dashed 
into the river, which rose nearly to his shoulders, and, after 
a vigorous pursuit, reached the rod, but only as the fish had 
broken the strong gut in two, and made his escape up the 
rapid current. 

The boy was toilfully clambering up the bank, with the 
broken rod in his hand, when a somewhat angry summons 
in Italian met his ears. It was time enough, he thought, 
to look for the speaker when he had gained dry land ; so he 
patiently fought his way upwards, and at last, out of breath 
and exhausted, threw himself full length in the deep grass 
of the bank. 

“ I believe I am indebted to you, sir, for my smashed 
tackle and the loss of a heavy fish besides ? ” said Charles 
Heathcote, as he came up to where the youth was lying, his 
voice and manner indicating the anger that moved him. 

“ I thought to have saved the rod and caught the fish too,’^ 
said the other, half indolently ; “ but I only got a wet jacket 
for my pains.” 

“I rather suspect, young gentleman, you are more con- 
versant with a measuring-yard than a salmon-rod,” said 
Heathcote, insolently, as he surveyed the damaged frag- 
ments of his tackle. 


S2 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ What do you mean by that, sir?” cried the boy, spring- 
ing with a bound to his feet, and advancing boldly towards 
his adversary. 

“ Simply that it 's not exactly the sort of sport you follow 
in Bond Street,” retorted Heathcote, whose head was full of 
“ Mosely and Trip,” and felt certain that a scion of that 
great house was before him. 

“You must be a rare snob not to know a gentleman when 
you see him,” said Agincourt, with an insolent defiance in 
his look. 

“ Perhaps I’d be a better judge if I saw him after a good 
washing,” said Heathcote, who, with one hasty glance at the 
river, now turned a fierce eye on the youth. 

Agincourt’s gun-room experiences had not taught him to 
'decline an offered battle, and he threw off his cap to show 
that he was ready and willing to accept the challenge, when 
suddenly Layton sprang between them, crying out, “ What ’s 
the meaning of all this?” 

“ The meaning is, that your young friend there has taken 
the liberty, first, to smash my fishing-gear, and then to be 
very insolent to me, and that I had very serious intentions 
of sending him to look for the one and pay forfeit for the 
other.” 

“Yes, I broke his rod, and I’ll pay for it, or, if he’s a 
gentleman, I ’ll beg his pardon, or fight him,” said the boy, 
in a tone of ill-repressed anger. 

“ When there is an evident mistake somewhere,” said 
Layton, gently, “it only needs a moment of forbearance to 
set it right.” 

“Here ’s how it all happened,” broke in the boy, eagerly. 
And in a few words he related his chance arrival at the spot, 
how he had seen the rod in what he deemed imminent 
danger, and how with the best intentions he had interfered 
to save it. 

“ I beg you to accept all my excuses for what I have said 
to you,” said Heathcote, with a frank and manly courtesy. 
“ I am quite ashamed of my ill-temper, and hope you’ll for- 
give it.” 

“ To be sure I will. But what about the rod, — you can’t 
easily get such another in these parts?” 


Accidents and their consequences. 33 

The boy looked eagerly at Layton as he spoke. Layton 
as quickly gave an admonitory glance of caution, and the 
youth’s instinctive good breeding understood it. 

“I think you came over with a party of friends to see the 
villa,” said Heathcote, to relieve the awkward pause between 
them. 

“ Not friends, exactly ; people of our hotel.” 

Heathcote smiled faintly, and rejoined, — 

“ Some of our pleasantest acquaintances come of chance 
intimacies, — don’t you think so?” 

“ Oh, for the matter of that, they ’re jolly enough. There ’s 
a wonderful Londoner, and a rare Yankee, and there ’s an 
Irishman would make the fortune of the Haymarket.” 

“You must own, Harry, they are all most kind and good- 
natured to you,” said Layton, in a tone of mild half-rebuke. 

“Well, ain’t I just as — what shall I call it? — polite and 
the like to them? Ay, Layton, frown away as much as you 
like, they’re a rum lot.” 

“It is young gentlemen of this age who nowadays are 
most severe on the manners and- habits of those they chance 
upon in a journey, not at all aware that, as the world is all 
new to them, their criticism may have for its object things of 
every-day frequency.” 

The youth looked somewhat vexed at this reproof, but said 
nothing. 

“ I have the same unlucky habit myself,” said Heathcote, 
good-humoredly. ‘ ^ I pronounce upon people with wonder- 
fully little knowledge of them, and no great experience of 
the world neither ; and — case in point — your American 
acquaintance is exactly one of those I feel the very strongest 
antipathy to. We have met at least a dozen times during 
the winter and autumn, and the very thought of finding him 
in a place would decide me to leave it.” 

It was not Layton’s business to correct what he deemed 
faulty in this sentiment ; but in the sharp glance he threw 
towards his pupil, he seemed to convey his disapproval of it. 

“ ‘ My Coach,’ Mr. Layton, is dying to tell us both we are 
wrong, sir,” said the boy; “he likes the ‘kernal.’” And 
this he said with a nasal twang whose imitation was not to 
be mistaken. 


3 


34 


ONE OF THEM. 


Though Heathcote laughed at the boy’s mimicry, his atten- 
tion was more taken by the expression “ my Coach,” which 
not only revealed the relations of tutor and pupil between 
them, but showed, by its familiarity, that the youth stood in 
no great awe of his preceptor. 

Perhaps Layton had no fancy for this liberty before a 
stranger ; perhaps he felt ashamed of the position itself ; 
perhaps he caught something in Heathcote’s quick glance 
towards him, — whatever it was, he was irritated and pro- 
voked, and angrily bit his lip, without uttering a word. 

“Oh, here come the sight-seers! they are doing the 
grounds, and the grottos, and the marble fountains,” cried 
the boy, as a large group came out from a flower-garden 
and took their way towards an orangery. As they issued 
forth, however, Mrs. Morris stopped to caress a very large 
St. Bernard dog, who lay chained at the foot of an oak-tree. 
Charles Heathcote had not time to warn her of her danger, 
when the animal sprang fiercely at her. Had she not fallen 
suddenly backward, she must have been fearfully mangled ; 
as it was, she received a severe wound in the wrist, and, 
overcome by pain and terror together, sank fainting on the 
sward. 

For some time the confusion was extreme. Some thought 
that the dog was at liberty, and fied away in terror across 
the park ; others averred that he was — must be — mad, and 
his bite fatal; a few tried to be useful; but Quackinboss 
hurried to the river, and, filling his hat with water, sprinkled 
the cold face of the sufferer and washed the wound, carefully 
binding it up with his handkerchief in a quick, business-like 
way, that showed he was not new to such casualties. 

Layton meanwhile took charge of the little girl, whose 
cries and screams were heartrending. 

“What a regular day of misfortunes, this!” said Agin- 
court, as he followed the mournful procession while they 
carried the still fainting figure back to the house. “I fancy 
you ’ll not let another batch of sight-seers into your grounds 
in a hurry.” 

“The ill-luck has all befallen our guests,” said Heath- 
cote. “Our share of the mishap is to be associated with 
so much calamity.” 


ACCIDENTS AND THEIR CONSEQUENCES. 


35 


All that care and kindness could provide waited on Mrs. 
Morris, as she was carried into the villa and laid on a bed. 
May Leslie took all upon herself, and while the doctor was 
sent for, used such remedies as she had near. It was at 
once decided that she should not be removed, and after some 
delay the company departed without her; the day that had 
dawned so pleasantly thus closing in gloom and sadness, 
and the party so bent on amusement returned homeward 
depressed and dispirited. 

“They ’re mean vicious, these Alp dogs, and never to be 
trusted,” said Quackinboss. 

“Heroines will be heroines,” said Mrs. Morgan, gruffly. 

“Or rather won’t be heroines when the occasion comes 
for it. She fainted off like a school-girl,” growled out 
Morgan. 

“I should think she did!” muttered Mosely, “when she 
felt the beast’s teeth in her.” 

“A regular day of misfortunes! ” repeated Agincourt. 

“And we lost the elegant fine luncheon, too, into the bar- 
gain,” said O’Shea. “Every one seemed to think it 
would n’t be genteel to eat after the disaster.” 

“ It is the fate of pleasure parties,” said Layton, moodily. 
And so they jogged on in silence. 

And thus ended a day of pleasure, as many have ended 
before it. 

Assuredly, they who plan picnics are not animated by 
the spirit of an actuary. There is a marvellous lack of 
calculation in their composition, since, of all species of 
entertainment, there exists not one so much at the mercy 
of accident, so thoroughly dependent for success on every- 
thing going right. Like the Walcheren expedition, the 
“wind must not only blow from the right point, but with 
a certain graduated amount of force.” What elements of 
sunshine and shade, what combinations of good spirits 
and good temper and good taste! what guidance and what 
moderation, what genius of direction and what “respect 
for minorities”! We will not enter upon the material 
sources of success, though, indeed, it should be owned they 
are generally better looked to, and more cared for, than 
the moral ingredients thus massed and commingled. 


36 


ONE OF THEM. 


It was late when the party reached the Bagni, and, wishing 
each other a half-cold good-night, separated. 

And now, one last peep at the villa, where we have left 
the sufferer. It was not until evening that the Heathcotes 
had so far recovered from the shock of the morning’s dis- 
aster and its consequences as to be able to meet and talk 
over the events, and the actors in them. 

“Well,” said Sir William, as they all sat round the tea- 
table, “what do you say to my Yankee now? Of all that 
company, was there one that showed the same readiness in 
a difficulty, a quick-witted aptitude to do the right thing, 
and at the same time so unobtrusively and quietly that 
when everything was over it was hard to say who had done 
it?” 

“/ call him charming. I ’m in ecstasies with him,” said 
May, whose exaggerations of praise or censure were usually 
unbounded. 

“ I ’m quite ready to own he ‘ came out ’ strong in the con- 
fusion,” said Charles, half unwillingly; “but it was just the 
sort of incident that such a man was sure to figure well in.” 

“ Show me the man who is active and ready-minded in his 
benevolence, and I ’ll show you one who has not to go far 
into his heart to search for generous motives. I maintain it, 
Quackinboss is a fine fellow!” There was almost a touch 
of anger in Sir William’s voice as he said these words, as 
though he would regard any disparagement of the American 
as an offence to himself. 

“I think Charley is a little jealous,” said May, with a 
sly malice; “he evidently wanted to carry the wounded lady 
himself, when that great giant interposed, and, seizing the 
prize, walked away as though he were only carrying a 
baby.” 

“/ fancied it was the tutor was disappointed,” said 
Charles; “and the way he devoted his cares to the little girl, 
when deprived of the mamma, convinced me he was the 
party chiefly interested.” 

“Which was the tutor?” asked May, hastily. “You 
don’t mean the man with all the velvet on his coat?” 

“No, no; that was Mr. O’Shea, the Irish M.P., who, by 
the way, paid you the most persevering attention.” 


ACCIDENTS AND THEIR CONSEQUENCES. 37 

“ A hateful creature, insufferably pretentious and imperti- 
nent ! The tutor was, then, the pale young man in black ? ” 
“A nice, modest fellow,” broke in Sir William; “and 
a fine boy that young Marquis of Agincourt. 1 ’m glad you 



asked him up here, Charles. He is to come on Tuesday, 
is he not? ” 

“Yes, I said Tuesday, because I can’t get my tackle to 
rights before that; and I promised to make him a fly-fisher. 
I owe him the reparation.” 




38 


ONE OF THEM. 


“You included the tutor, of course, in your invitation?” 
asked his father. 

“No. How stupid! I forgot him altogether.” 

“Oh! that was too bad,” said May. 

“Indeed,” cried Charles, turning towards her with a look 
of such malicious significance that she blushed deeply, and 
averted her head. 

“Let us invite them all up here for Tuesday, May,” said 
Sir William. “It would be very unfair if they were to 
carry away only a disagreeable memory of this visit. Let 
us try and efface the first unhappy impression.” 

“All right,” said Charles, “and I’ll dash off a few lines 
to Mr. Layton, I think his name is, to say that we expect 
he will favor us with his company for a few days here. 
Am I not generosity itself. May?” said he, in a low whis- 
per, as he passed behind her chair. 

A blush still deeper than the first, and a look of offended 
pride, were her only answer. 

“I must go in search of these good people’s cards, for 
I forget some of their names,” said Charles; “though I be- 
lieve I remember the important ones.” 

This last sally was again directed towards May, but she, 
apparently, did not hear it. 

“Who knows but your patient upstairs may be well 
enough to meet her friends. May?” said Sir William. 

“Perhaps so. I can’t tell,” answered she, vaguely; for 
she had but heard him imperfectly, and scarcely knew what 
she was replying. 


1 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE MEMBER FOR INCHABOGUE. 

Mr. O’Shea lay in his bed at the Bagni di Lucca. It was 
late in the afternoon, and he had not yet risen, being one 
of those who deem, to travesty the poet, — 

That the best of all ways 
To shorten our days 

Is to add a few hours to the night, my dear. 

In other words, he was ineffably bored and wearied, sick of 
the place, the people, and himself, and only wearing over 
the time as one might do the stated term of an imprison- 
ment. His agent — Mr. Mahony, the celebrated Mr. Miles 
Mahony, who was agent for all the Irish gentlemen of Mr. 
O’Shea’s politics, and who has either estates very much 
encumbered, or no estates at all — had written him that 
letter, which might be stereotyped in every agent’s office, 
and sent off indiscriminately by post, at due intervals, to 
any of the clients, for there was the same bead-roll of mis- 
haps and calamities Ireland has been suffering under for 
centuries. Take any traveller or guide-book experience of 
the land, and it is a record of rain that never ceased. The 
Deluge was a passing April shower compared to the national 
climate. Ask any proprietor, however, more especially if a 
farmer, and he would tell you, “We’re ruined, entirely 
ruined, with the drought,” — perhaps he ’d have called it 
“druth.” “If the rain does n’t fall before twenty-four 
hours, there will be no potatoes, no grass, no straw, the 
wheat won’t fill, the cattle will be destroyed,” and so on; 
just as if the whole population was not soaked through like 
a wet sponge, and the earth a sludge of mud and swamp, to 
which Holland seems a sand-bank in comparison! Then 


40 


ONE OF THEM. 


came the runaway tenants, only varied by those who 
couldn’t be induced to “run” on any terms. There was 
the usual “agrarian outrage,” with the increased police 
force quartered on the barony in consequence, and perhaps 
a threat of a special commission, with more expense be- 
sides. There was the extract of the judge’s charge, saying 
that he never remembered so “heavy a calendar,” the whole 
winding up with an urgent appeal to send over ten or twenty 
pounds to repair the chapel or the priest’s house, or contrib- 
ute to some local object, “at your indifference to which 
there is very great discontent at this moment.” 

A pleasant postcript also mentioned that a dissolution of 
Parliament was daily expected, and that it would be well 
you’d “come home and look after the borough, where the 
Tories were working night and day to increase their 
influence.” 

“ Bad luck to them for Tories ! ” muttered he, as he threw 
the crumpled document from him. “I ’d have been well off 
to-day if it was n’t for them. There ’s no telling the money 
the contested elections cost me, while, to make out that I 
was a patriot, I could n’t take a place, but had to go on 
voting and voting out of the purity of my motives. It was 
an evil hour when I took to politics at all. Joe! Joe!” 
cried he, aloud, following up the appeal with a shrill 
whistle. 

“Tear and ages, sure the house isn’t on fire!” said a 
man, rushing into the room with an air and manner that 
little indicated the respect due from a servant to his master; 
“not to say,” added he, “that it’s not dacent or becomin’ 
to whistle after me, as if I was a tarrier or a bull-dog.” 

“Hold your prate, will you? ” said Mr. O’Shea. 

“Why would I? ’Tis humiliated I am before all in the 
place.” 

“Will you hold your prate?” muttered his master, in a 
deeper tone, while, stretching forth his hand, he seemed in 
search of any missile to hurl at his mutinous follower. 

“If I do, then, it ’s undher protest, mind that. I put it 
on record that I ’m only yieldin’ to the ‘ vis magiory.’ ” 

“What o’clock is it?” yawned out O’Shea. 

“It wants a trifle of four o’clock.” 


THE MEMBER FOR INCHABOGUE. 


41 


“And the day, — what ’s it like? ” 

“Blazin’ hot — hotter than yesterday — ‘ hotter than New 
Orleens,’ Mr. Quackinbosh says.” 

‘‘D — Mr. Quackinbosh, and New Orleens too! ” growled 
out O’Shea. 

“With all my heart. He ’s always laughing at what he 
calls my Irish, as if it was n’t better than his English.” 

“Any strangers arrived?” 

“Devil a one. Ould Pagnini says he ’ll be ruined entirely; 
there never was such a set, he says, in the house before, — 
nothing called for but the reg’lar meals, and no wine but 
the drink of the country, that is n’t wine at all.” 

“He ’s an insolent scoundrel! ” 

“He is not. He is the dacentest man I seen since I come 
to Italy.” 

“Will you hold your prate, or do you want me to kick 
you downstairs ? ” 

“I do not!” said he, with a stern doggedness that was 
almost comic. 

“Did you order breakfast-?” 

“I did, when I heard you screech out. ‘ There he is,’ 
said ould Pan ; ‘ I wish he ’d be in the same hurry to call 
for his bill.’ ” 

“Insolent rascal! Did you blacken his eye? ” 

“I did not.” 

“What did you do, then?” 

“I did nothing.” 

“What did you say? You’re ready enough with a bad 
tongue when it ’s not called for, — what did you say?” 

“I said people called for their bills when they were lavin’ 
a house, and too lucky you ’ll be, says I, if he pays it when 
he calls for it.” 

This seemed too much for Mr. O’Shea’s endurance, for 
he sprang out of bed and hurled a heavy old olive-wood 
inkstand at his follower. Joe, apparently habituated to 
such projectiles, speedily ducked his head, and the missile 
struck the frame of an old looking-glass, and carried away 
a much-ornamented but very frail chandelier at its side. 

“There’s more of it,” said Joe. “Damage to furniture 
in settin’-room, forty-six pauls and a half.” With this 


42 


ONE OF THEM. 


sage reflection, he pushed the fragments aside with his foot, 
s-nd then, turning to the door, he took from the hands of a 
waiter the tray containing his master’s breakfast, arranging 
it deliberately before him with the most unbroken tran- 
quillity of demeanor. 

“Didn’t you say it was chocolate I’d have instead of 
■coffee?” said O’Shea, angrily. 

“1 did not; they grumble enough about sending up 
anything, and I wasn’t goin’ to provoke them,” said Joe, 
■calmly. 

“No letters, I suppose, but this?” 

“Sorra one.” 

“What’s going on below?” asked he, in a more lively 
tone, as though dismissing an unpleasant theme. “Any 
one come, — anything doing? ” 

“Nothing; they’re all off to that villa to spend the day, 
and not to be back till late at night.” 

“Stupid fun, after all; the road is roasting, and the 
place, when you get there, not worth the trouble; but 
they ’re so proud of visiting a baronet, that ’s the whole 
secret of it, those vulgar Morgans and that Yankee fellow.” 

These mutterings he continued while he went on dressing, 
and though not intended to be addressed to Joe, he was in 
no wise disconcerted when that free-and-easy individual 
replied to them. 

“ ‘ Your master ’s not coming with us, I believe, ’ said Mrs. 
Morgan to me. ‘I’m sure, however, there must have been 
a mistake. It ’s so strange that he got no invitation.’ 

“ ‘ But he did, ma’am,’ says I; ‘ he got a card like the 
rest.’ ” 

“Well done, Joe; a lie never choked you. Go on,” cried 
O’Shea, laughing. 

“ ‘ But you see, ma’am,’ says I, ‘ my master never goes 
anywhere in that kind of promiscuous way. He expects to 
be called on and trated with “differince,” as becomes a 
member of Parliament — ’ 

“ ‘ For Ireland? ’ says she. 

“‘Yes, ma’am,’ says I. ‘We haven’t as many goats 
Ihere as in other parts I ’m tould of, nor the females don’t 
ride straddle legs, with men’s hats on thim.’ ” 


THE MEMBER FOR INCHABOGUE. 


43 


“You didn’t say that?” burst in O’Shea, with a mock 
severity. 

“I did, and more, — a great deal more. What business 
was it of hers that you were not asked to the picnic? What 
had she to say to it? Why did she follow me down the 
street the other morning, and stay watching all the time I 
was in at the banker’s, and though, when I came out, I made 
believe I was stuffin’ the bank-notes into my pocket, I saw 
by the impudent laugh on her face that she knew I got 
nothing? ” 

“ By the way, you never told me what Twist and Trover 
said.” 

“I did.” 

“Well, what was it? Tell it again,” said O’Shea, 
angrily. 

“Mr. Trover said, ‘ Of course, whatever your master 
wants, just step in there and show it to Mr. Twist;’ and 
Mr. Twist said, ‘ Are you here again,’ says he, ‘ after the 
warnin’ I gave you? Go back and tell your master ’t is 
takin’ up his two last bills he ought to be, instead of 
passin’ more.’ 

Mr. Trover, sir,’ says I, ‘ sent me in.’ 

“‘Well, Mr. Twist sent you out again,’ says he, ‘and 
there ’s your answer.’ 

“ ‘Short and sweet,’ says I, goin’ out, and pretending to 
be putting up the notes as I went.” 

“Did you go down to the other fellow’s, — Macapes?” 

“I did; but as he seen me coming out of the other place, 
he only ballyragged me, and said, ‘ We only discount for 
them as has letters of credit on us. ’ 

“ ‘ Well,’ says I, ‘ but who knows that they ’re not coming 
in the post now? ’ 

“ ‘We ’ll wait till we see them,’ says he. 

“ ‘ By my conscience,’ says I, ‘ I hope you ’ll not eat your 
breakfast till they come.’ And so I walked away. Oh 
dear! is n’t it a suspicious world?” 

“It’s a rascally world!” broke out O’Shea, with bit- 
terness. 

“It is!” assented Joe, with a positive energy there was 
no gainsaying. 


44 


ONE OF THEM. 


‘‘Is Mr. Layton gone with the rest this morning? ” 

“He is, and the Marquis. They’re a-horseback on two 
ponies not worth fifty shilling apiece.” , 

“And that counter-jumper, Mosely, I’ll wager he too 
thinks himself first favorite for the heiress.” 

“Well, then, in the name of all that ’s lucky, why don’t 
you thry your own chance?” said Joe, coaxingly. 

“Isn’t it because I did try that they have left me out of 
this invitation? Is n’t it because they saw I was like to be 
the winning horse that they scratched me out of the race? 
Is n’t it just because Gorman O’Shea was the man to carry 
off the prize that they would n’t let me enter the lists? ” 

“There ’s only two more as rich as her in all England,” 
chimed in Joe, “and one of them will never marry any but 
the Emperor of Roosia.” 

“She has money enough! ” muttered O’Shea. 

“And neither father nor mother, brother, sister, kith or 
kin,” continued Joe, in a tone of exultation that seemed to 
say he knew of no such good luck in life as to stand alone 
and friendless in the world. 

“Those Heathcotes are related to her.” 

“No more than they are to you. I have it all from Miss 
Smithers, the maid. ‘We’re as free as air, Mr. Rouse,’ 
says she; ‘ wherever we have a “conceit,” we can follow it.’ 
That’s plain talking, anyhow.” 

“Would you marry Smithers, Joe?” said his master, 
with a roguish twinkle in his eye. 

“Maybe, if I knew for what; though, by my conscience, 
she ’s no beauty! ” 

“I meant, of course, for a good consideration.” 

“Not on a bill, though, — money down, — hard money.” 

“And how much of it?” asked O’Shea, with a knowing 
look. 

“The price of that place at Kinsale.” 

“The ‘ Trout and Triangle,’ Joe?” laughed out his mas- 
ter. “Are you still yearning after being an innkeeper in 
your native town ? ” 

“I am just that,” replied Joe, solemnly. “ ’T is what I ’,d 
rather be than Lord Mayor of Dublin! ” 

“Well, it is an honorable ambition, no doubt of it. 


THE MEMBER FOR INCHABOGUE. 


45 


IS^othing can be more reasonable, besides, than a man’s 
Hesire to fill that station in life which, to his boyish ideas, 
seemed high and enviable.” This speech Mr. O’Shea deliv- 
ered in a tone by which he occasionally turned to rehearse 
oratorical effects, and which, by some strange sympathy, 
always appeared to please his follower. ^‘Yes, Joe,” con- 
tinued he, ‘‘as the poet says, ‘ The child is father of the 
man.’” * 

“You mane the man is father of the child,” broke in Joe. 

“I do not, booby; I meant what I have said, and what 
Wordsworth said before me.” 

“The more fool he, then. It ’s nobody’s father he ’d be. 
Arrah! that’s the way you always spoil a fine sintiment 
with something out of a poet. Poets and play-actors never 
helped a man out of a ditch ! ” 

“Will you marry this Smithers, if that be her name?” 
said O’Shea, angrily. 

“For the place — ” 

“I mean as much.” 

“I would, if 1 was treated — ‘ raysonable, ’” said he, 
pausing for a moment in search of the precise word he 
wanted. 

Mr. O’Shea sighed heavily; his exchequer contained 
nothing but promises ; and none knew better than his fol- 
lower what such pledges were worth. 

“It would be the making of Joe,” said he, after a 
brief silence, “if I was to marry this heiress.” 

“Indeed, it might be,” responded the other. 

“It would be the grand event of ^our life, that ’s what it 
would be. What could I not do for you? You might be 
land-steward; you might be under-agent, bailiff, driver, 
^eh?” 

“Yes,” said Joe, closing his eyes, as if he desired to 
relish the vision undisturbed by external distractions. 

“I have always treated you as a sort of friend, Joe, — 
you know that.” 

“I do, sir. I do, indeed.” 

“And I mean to prove myself your friend too. It is not 
the man who has stuck faithfully by me that I ’d desert. 
Where ’s my dressing-gown? ” 


46 


ONE OF THEM. 


“She was torn under the arm, and I gave her to be 
mended; put this round you,” said he, draping a much- 
befrogged pelisse over his master’s shoulders. 

“These are not my slippers, you stupid ass! ” 

“They are the ould ones. Don’t you remember shying 
one of the others, yesterday, at the organ-boy, and it fell in 
the river and was lost ? ” 

Mr. O’Shea’s brow darkened as he sat down to his meal. 
“Tell Pan,” said he, “to send me up some broth and a chop 
about seven. I must keep the house to-day, and be indis- 
posed. And do you go over to Lucca, and raise me a few 
Naps on my ‘rose-amethyst’ ring. Three will do; five 
would be better, though.” 

Joe sighed. It was a mission he had so often been 
charged with and never came well out of, since his master 
would invariably insist on hearing every step of the negoti- 
ation, and as unfailingly revenged upon his envoy all the 
impertinences to which the treaty gave rise. 

“Don’t come back with any insolent balderdash about the 
stone being false, or having a flaw in it. Holditch values 
it at two hundred and thirty pounds; and, if it wasn’t a 
family ring, I ’d have taken the money. And, mind you, 
don’t be talking about whose it is, — it ’s a gentleman wait- 
ing for his letters — ” 

“Sure I know,” burst in Joe; “his remittances, that ought 
to be here every day.” 

“Just so; and that merely requires a few Naps — ” 

“To pay his cigars — ” 

“There’s no need of more explanation. Away with 
you; and tell Bruno I ’ll want a saddle-horse to-morrow, to 
be here at the door by two o’clock.” 

Joe took his departure, and Mr. O’Shea was left to his 
own meditations. 

It may seem a small cause for depression of spirits, but, 
in truth, it was always a day of deep humiliation to Mr. 
O’Shea when his necessities compelled him to separate him- 
self from that cherished relic, his great-grandmother’s ring. 
It had been reserved in his family, as a sort of charm, for 
generations; his grand-uncle Luke had married on the 
strength of it ; his own father had flashed it in the eyes of 


THE MEMBER FOR INCHABOGUE. 


4T 


Bath and Cheltenham, for many a winter, with great suc- 
cess ; and he himself had so significantly pointed out incor- 
rect items in his hotel bills, with the forefinger that bore it, 
that landlords had never pressed for payment, but gone 
away heart-full of the man who owned such splendor. 

It would be a curious subject to inquire how many men 
have owed their distinction or success in life to some small 
adjunct, some adventitious appendage of this kind ; a horse, 
a picture, a rare bronze, a statue, a curious manuscript, a 
fragment of old armor, have made their owners famous, 
when they have had the craft to merge their identity in the 
more absorbing interest of the wondrous treasure. And 
thus the man that owns the winner of the Derby, a great 
cup carved by Cellini, or a chef-d'o&uvre of Claude or Turner, 
may repose upon the fame of his possession, identified as he 
is with so much greatness. Oh! ye possessors of show 
places, handsome wives, rare gardens, or costly gems, in 
what borrowed bravery do ye meet the world 1 Not that in 
this happy category Mr. O’Shea had his niche ; no, he was 
only the owner of a ring — a rose-amethyst ring — whose 
purity was perhaps not more above suspicion than his own. 
And yet it had done him marvellous service on more than 
one occasion. It had astonished the bathers at St. Leonard, 
and dazzled the dinner company at Tunbridge Wells; Har- 
rogate had winked under it, and Malvern gazed at it with 
awe; and society, so to say, was divided into those who 
knew the man from the ring, and those who knew the ring 
from the man. 


CHAPTER VII. 


MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS. 

Our reader has been told how Mrs. Penthony Morris stormed 
the Villa Caprini, established herself, child, maid, and Skye 
terrier within its walls, and became, ere many days went 
over, a sort of influence in the place. It is not in chemistry 
alone that a single ingredient, minute and scarce perceptible, 
can change the property and alter all the quality of the mass 
with which it is mingled. Human nature exhibits phenomena 
precisely alike, and certain individuals possess the marvel- 
lous power of tingeing the world they mix in, with their own 
hue and color, and flavoring society with sweet or bitter, as 
temper induces them. The first and most essential quality 
of such persons is a rapid — an actually instinctive — appre- 
ciation of the characters they meet, even passingly, in the 
world’s intercourse. They have not to spell out tempera- 
ments slowly and laboriously. To them men’s natures are 
not written in phonetic signs or dark symbols, but in letters 
large and legible. They see, salute, speak with you, and 
they understand you. Not, perhaps, as old friends know 
you, with reference to this or that minute trick of mind or 
temper, but, with a far wider range of your character than 
even old friends have taken, they know your likes and dis- 
likes, the things you fear and hope, the weak points you 
would fortify, and sometimes the strong ones you would 
mask, — in a word, for all the purposes of intercourse, they 
are able to estimate your strength and weakness, and all this 
ere, perhaps, you have noted the accents of their voice or the 
color of their eyes. 

The lady of whom it is now our business to speak was one 
of this gifted class. Whence she came, and how she became 
such, we are not about to enter upon. She had had her 


MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS. 


49 


share of trials, and yet was both young and good-looking ; 
her good looks in no wise evidencing the vestiges of any 
sorrow. Whether a widowed or deserted wife, she bore be- 
reavement admirably ; indeed, so far as one could see, she 
professed a very rare ethical philosophy. Her theory" was, 
the world was a very nice world, the people in it very nice 
people ; life itself a very nice thing ; and that people, gen- 
erally speaking, only needed their own consent to be very 
happy and contented. She had, it is true, some very able 
adjuncts to carry out her system. There was scarcely an 
acquirement that she did not possess reasonably well ; she 
spoke several languages, sang, rode, drew, played billiards 
most gracefully, and could manufacture the most charming 
cigarettes that ever were smoked. Some of these are envied 
qualities, and suggest envy ; but against this she was care- 
ful to guard, and this by a very simple method indeed. In 
whatever she did, tried, or attempted, she always asked your 
advice. She had carefully studied the effect of the imputed 
superiority of those who counsel their neighbors, and she 
saw in its working one of the most tangible of all human 
w'eaknesses. The tendency to guide and direct others is a 
very popular one. Generous people practise it out of their 
generosity ; gentle natures indulge in the practice in very 
sympathy. To stern moralists it is an occasion for the hard 
lessons they love to inculcate. The young are pleased with 
its importance; the old are gratified to exercise their just 
prerogative. “ Tell me how do you do this; ” or, “Teach 
me how to correct that; ” “ What would you advise in my 
place?” or, “What reply would you give to that?” are 
appeals that involve a very subtle flattery. Every man, 
and more decisively too, every woman, likes to be deemed 
shrewd and worldly-wise. Now, Mrs. Morris had reflected 
deeply over this trait, and saw to what good account care 
and watchfulness might turn it. He who seeks to be guided 
by another makes his appeal in a guise of humility, besides, 
which is always a flattery, and when this is done artfully, 
with every aid from good looks and a graceful manner, suc- 
cess is rarely wanting; and lastly, it is the only form of 
selfishness the world neither resents nor repudiates. 

He who comes to you with a perfectly finished tale of his 

4 


50 


ONE OF THEM. 


misfortuDes, with “ Finis ” written on the last volume of his 
woes, is simply a bore ; whereas he who approaches you while 
the catastrophe yet hangs impending, has always an interest 
attached to him. He may marry the heiress yet, he may be 
arrested on that charge of forgery, obtain that Cross of the 
Bath, or be shot in that duel ; you are at least talking to a 
man Fortune has not done with, and this much is something. 

Mrs. Morris had been little more than a fortnight domesti- 
cated at the Villa Caprini, where her weakness still detained 
her, and j^et she had contrived to consult Sir William about 
her fortune, invested, almost entirely, in “Peruvians,” which 
her agent, Mr. Halker, had told her were “ excellent; ” but 
whether the people of that name, or the country, or the 
celebrated Bark, was the subject of the investment, she really 
professed not to know. 

To May Leslie she had confided the great secret of her 
heart, — an unpublished novel ; a story mainly comprised 
of the sad events of her own life, and the propriety of 
giving which to the world was the disputed question of her 
existence. 

As to Charles, she had consulted hirn how best to disem- 
barrass herself of the attentions of Mr. Mosely, who was. 
really become a persecutor. She owned that in asking his 
counsel she could not impart to him all the circumstances 
which he had a right to be possessed of, — she appealed to 
his delicacy not to question her. So that whether wife or 
widow, he knew not what she might be, and, in fact, she even 
made of the obscurity another subject of his interest, and so 
involved him in her story that he could think of nothing else. 
She managed each of these confidences with such consum- 
mate skill that each believed himself her one sole trusted 
friend, depositary of her cares, refuge of her sorrows ; and 
while thus insinuating herself into a share of their sympathy, 
she displayed, as though by mere accident, many of her 
attractions, and gave herself an opportunity of showing how 
interesting she was in her sorrow and how fascinating in 
her joy! 

The Heathcotes — father, son, and niece — were possessed 
of a very ample share of the goods of fortune. They had 
health, wealth, freedom to live where and how they liked. 


RS. PENTHONY MORkIS. 


51 


They were well disposed towards each other and towards the 
world ; inclined to enjoy life, and suited to its enjoyment. 
But somehow, pretty much like some mass of complicated 
machinery, which by default of some small piece of mech- 
anism — a spring, a screw, or a pinion the more — stands 
idle and inert, — all its force useless, all its power unused, 
they had no pursuit, — did nothing. Mrs. Morris was ex- 
actly the motive power wanting ; and by her agency interests 
sprang up, occupations were created, pleasures invented. 
Without bustle, without even excitement, the dull routine of 
the day grew animate ; the hours sped glibly along. Little 
Clara, too, was no small aid to this change. In the quiet 
monotony of a grave household a child^s influence is magical. 
As the sight of a butterfly out at sea brings up thoughts 
of shady alleys and woodbine-covered windows, of “ the 
grass and the flowers among the grass,” so will a child’s 
light step and merry voice throw a whole flood of sunny 
associations over the sad-colored quietude of some old house. 
Clara was every one’s companion and everywhere, — with 
Charles as he fished, with May Leslie in the flower-garden, 
with old Sir William in the orangery, or looking over pic- 
tures beside him in the long-galleried library. 

Mrs. Morris herself was yet too great an invalid for an 
active life. Her chair would be wheeled out into the lawn, 
under the shade of an immense weeping-ash, and there, 
during the day, as to some “general staff,” came all the 
“reports” of what was doing each morning. Newspapers 
and books would be littered about her, and even letters 
brought her to read, from dear friends, with whose names 
conversation had made her familiar. A portion of time 
was, however, reserved for Clara’s lessons, which no plan or 
project was ever suffered to invade. 

It may seem a somewhat dreary invitation if we ask our 
readers to assist at one of these mornings. Pinnock and 
Mrs. Barbauld and Mangnall are, perhaps, not the company 
to their taste, nor will they care to cast up multiplications, 
or stumble through the blotted French exercise. Well, we 
can only pledge ourselves not to exaggerate the infliction of 
these evils. And now to our task. It is about eleven 
o’clock of a fine summer’s day, in Italy; Mrs. Morris sits 


52 


ONE OF THEM. 


at her embroidery-frame, under the long-branched willow; 
Clara, at a table near, is drawing, her long silky curls 
falling over the paper, and even interfering with her work, 
as is shown by an impatient toss of her head, or even a 
hastier gesture, as with her hands she flings them back 
upon her neck. 

“It was to Charley I said it, mamma,” said she, without 
lifting her head, and went on wdth her work. 

“Have I not told you, already, to call him Mr. Charles 
Heathcote, or Mr. Heathcote, Clara ? ” 

“But he says he won’t have it.” 

“What an expression, — ‘ won’t have it ’ ! ” 

“Well, I know,” cried she, with impatience; and then 
laughingly said, “ I ’ve forgot, in a hurry, old dear Bind- 
ley Murray.” 

“I beg of you to give up that vile trash of doggerel 
rhyme. And now what was it you said to Mr. Heathcote? ” 

“I told him that I was an only child, — ‘ a violet on a 
grassy bank, in sweetness all alone,’ as the little book 
says.” 

“And then he asked about your papa; if you remembered 
him?” 

“No, mamma.” 

“He made some mention, some allusion, to papa?” 

“Only a little sly remark of how fond he must be of me, 
or I of him.'* 

“And what did you answer?” 

“I only wiped my eyes, mamma; and then he seemed so 
sorry to have given me pain that he spoke of something 
else. Like Sir Guyon, — 

“ ‘ He talked of roses, lilies, and the rest, 

The shady alley, and the upland swelling ; 

Wondered what notes birds warbled in their nest. 

What tales the rippling river then was telling.’ ” 

“And then you left him, and came away?” said her 
mother. 

“Yes, mamma. I said it was my lesson time, and that 
you were 'so exact and so punctual that I did not dare to 
be late.” 


MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS. 53 

“Was it then he asked if mamma had always been your 
governess, Clara ? ” 

“No; it was May that asked that question. May Leslie 
has a very pretty way of pumping, mamma, though you ’d 
not suspect it. She begins with the usual ‘ Are you very 
fond of Italy? ’ or ‘ Don’t you prefer England? ’ and then 
‘ What part of England ? * ” 

Mrs. Morris bit her lip, and colored slightly; and then, 
laying her work on her lap, stared steadfastly at the girl, 
still deeply intent on her drawing. 

“I like them to begin that way,” continued Clara. “It 
costs no trouble to answer such bungling questions; and 
whenever they push me closer, I ’ve an infallible method, 
mamma, — it never fails.” 

“What’s that? ” asked her mother, dryly. 

“I just say, as innocently as possible, ‘ I ’ll run and ask 
mamma; I ’m certain she ’ll be delighted to tell you.’ And 
then, if you only saw the shame and confusion they get into, 
saying, ‘ On no account, Clara dearest. I had no object in 
asking. It was mere idle talking,’ and so on. Oh dear! 
what humiliation all their curiosity costs them! ” 

“You try to be too shrewd, too cunning. Miss Clara,” 
said her mother, rebukingly. “It is a knife that often cuts 
with the handle. Be satisfied with discovering people’s 
intentions, and don’t plume yourself about the cleverness 
of finding them out, or else, Clara,” — and here she spoke 
more slowly, — “or else, Clara, they will find you out too.” 

“Oh, surely not, while I continue the thoughtless, guile- 
less little child mamma has made me,” said she. And the 
tears rose to her eyes, with an expression of mingled anger 
and sorrow it was sad to see in one so young. 

“Clara! ” cried her mother, in a voice of angry meaning; 
and then, suddenly checking herself, she said, in a lower 
tone, “let there be none of this.” 

“Sir William asked me how old I was, mamma.” 

“And you said — ” 

“I believed twelve. Is it twelve? I ought to know, 
mamma, something for certain, for I was eleven two years 
ago, and then I have been ten since that; and when I was 
your sister, at Brighton, I was thirteen.” 


56 


ONE OF THEM.' 


tion, but a faint sob was still audible from beneath her 
handkerchief. “Oh!” cried she, in a faint and broken 
voice, “ if you but knew in what a wounded heart you have 
poured this balm! — if I could tell — what I cannot tell you 
— at least, not yet — No, no. Sir William, we must leave 
this. I have already written to my agent about letters for 
Alexandria and Cairo. You know,” she added, with a sad 
smile, “the doctors have sentenced me to Egypt for the 
winter.” 

“These fellows are mere alarmists. Italy is the best 
climate in the world, or, rather, it has all the climates in the 
world ; besides, I have some wonderful counsel to give you 
about your bonds. I intend that Miss Clara shall be the 
great heiress of her day. At all events, you shall settle it 
with May.” And so, with that dread of a scene, a sort of 
terror about everything emotional, — not very unnatural in 
gentlemen of a certain time of life, and with strong san- 
guineous temperaments, — Sir William hurried away and 
left her to her own reflections. 

Thus alone, Mrs. Morris took a letter from her pocket, 
and began to read it. Apparently the document had been 
perused by her before, for she passed hastily over the first 
page, scarcely skimming the lines with her eye. It w'as as 
if to give increased opportunity for judgment on the con- 
tents that she muttered the words as she read them. They 
ran thus : — 

“ A month or six weeks back our proposal might have been ac- 
cepted, so at least Collier thinks ; but he is now in funds, has money 
in abundance, and you know wJiat he is at such moments. When 
Collier went to him at his lodgings in King Street, he found him in 
high spirits, boasting that he occupied the old quarters of the French 
Emperor, — that he had even succeeded to his arm-chair and his 
writing-table. ‘ A splendid augury, Tom,’ said he, laughing. ‘ Who 
knows but I, too, shall be “ restored ” one of these days ? ’ After 
some bantering he stopped suddenly, and said, ‘ By the way, what 
the devil brings you here? Isn’t it something about Loo? They 
say you want to marry her yourself, Collier, — is that true ? ’ Not 
heeding C.’s denial, given in all solemnity, he went on to show that 
you could be no possible use to Collier, — that he himself could 
utilize your abilities, and give your talents a fitting sphere; whereas 
in Collier’s set you would be utterly lost. C. said it was as good as 


MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS. 


57 


a play to hear his talk of all the fine things you might have done, 
and might yet do, in concert. ‘ Then there ’s Clara, too,’ cried he, 
again ; ‘ she ’ll make the greatest hit of our day. She can come out 
for a season at the Haymarket, and she can marry whoever she 
likes.’ Once in this vein, it was very hard to bring him back to 
anything like a bargain. Indeed, Collier says he would n’t hear of 
any but immense terms, — ridiculed the notion of your wanting to 
be free, for mere freedom’s sake, and jocularly said, ‘ Tell me frankly, 
whom does she want to marry? or who wants to marry herl I ’m 
not an unreasonable fellow if 1 ’m treated on “ the square.” ’ Collier 
assured him that you only desired liberty, that you might take your 
own road in life. ‘ Then let her take it, by all means,’ cried he. 
‘I am not molesting her, — never have molested her, even when she 
went so far as to call herself by another name ; she need n’t cry out 
before she’s hurt;’ and so on. C. at last brought him to distinct 
terms, and he said, ‘ She shall cut the painter for five thousand ; 
she ’s worth to me every guinea of it, and I ’ll not take less.’ Of 
course. Collier said these were impossible conditions ; and then they 
talked away about other matters. You know his boastful way, and 
how little reliance can be laid on any statement he makes ; but cer- 
tain it is. Collier came away fully impressed with the flourishing 
condition of his present fortune, his intimacy with great people, and 
his actual influence with men in power. That this is not entirely 
fabulous I have just received a most disagreeable proof. When 
Collier rose to go away, he said, ‘ By the way, you occasionally see 
Nick Holmes ; well, just give him a hint to set his house in order,, 
for they are going to stop payment of that Irish pension of his. It 
appears, from some correspondence of Lord Cornwallis that has just 
turned up, Nick’s pension was to be continued for a stated term of 
years, and that he has been in receipt of it for the last six years 
without any right whatever. It is very hard on Nick,’ said he, ‘ see- 
ing that he sold himself to the devil, not at least to be his own 
master in this world. I ’m sorry for the old dog on family grounds, 
for he is at least one of my father-in-laws.’ I quote his words as 
Collier gave them, and to-day I have received a Treasury order tO' 
forward”to the Lords a copy of the letter or warrant under which I 
received my pension. I mean simply to refer them to my evidence 
on Shehan’s trial, where my testimony hanged both father and son. 
If this incident shows nothing else, it demonstrates the amount of 
information he has of what is doing or to be done in Downing Street. 
As to the pension, I ’m not much afraid ; my revelations of 1808 
would be worse than the cost of me in the budget. 

“ If T find that nothing can be done with Ludlow, I don’t think I 
shall remain here longer, and the chances are that I shall take a run 
as far as Baden, and who says not over the Alps after? Don’t be 


58 


ONE OF THEM. 


frightened, dear Loo, we shall meet at the same table rVhole, drink at 
the same public spring, bet on the same card at rouge-et-noir, and I 
will never betray either of us. Of your Heathcotes 1 can learn next 
to nothing. There was a baronet of the name who ruined himself 
by searches after a title — an earldom, I believe — and railroad 
speculations, but he died, or is supposed to have died, abroad. At 
all events, your present owners of the name keep a good house, and 
treat you handsomely, so that there can be no great mistake in 
knowing them. Sufficient for the day is the evil — as the old say- 
ing is ; and it is a wise one if we understood how to apply it. 

“ I have been twice with Hadson and Reames, but there is nothing 
to be done. They say that the town does not care for a wife’s book 
against her husband ; they have the whole story better told, and on 
oath, in the Divorce Court. A really slashing volume of a husband- 
against his wife might, however, take ; he could say a number of 
things would amuse the public, and have a large sympathy with 
him. These are Hadson’s or Reames’s words, I don’t know which, 
for they always talk together. How odd that you should have 
thought of the ballet for Clara just as I had suggested it ! Of course, 
till free of Ludlow, it is out of the question. I am sorry to seal and 
send off such a disagreeable letter, dear Louisa, but who knows the 
sad exigencies of this weary world better than your affectionate 
father. 

Holmes. 

“ I accidentally heard yesterday that there was actually a Mrs. 
Penthony Morris travelling somewhere in Switzerland. Washington 
Irving, I believe, once chanced upon a living Ichabod Crane, when 
he had flattered himself that the name was his own invention. The 
complication in the present case might be embarrassing. So bear it 
in mind.” 

“Tant pis pour elle, whoever the other Mrs. Morris may 
be,” said she, laughing, as she folded up the letter, and 
half mechanically regarded the seal. “ You ought to change 
your crest, respectable father mine,” muttered she; “the 
wags might say that your portcullis was a gallows.” And 
then, with a weary sigh, she closed her eyes, and fell 
a-thinking. 

That quiet, tranquil, even-tempered category of man- 
kind, whose present has few casualties, and whose future 
is, so far as human foresight can extend, assured to them, 
can form not the slightest conception of the mingled pleas- 
ure and pain that chequer the life of “the adventurer.” The 


MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS. 


59 


man who consents to gamble existence, has all the violent 
ecstasies of joy and grief that wait on changeful fortunes. 

“Shall I hit upon the right number this time? Will red 
win once more ? Is the run of luck good or ill, or, it may 
be, exhausted ? ” These are questions ever rising to his 
mind; and what contrivance, what preparation, what spirit 
of exigency do they evoke! Theirs is a hand-to-hand con- 
flict with Fate; they can subsidize no legions, skulk behind 
no parapets ; in open field must the war be carried on ; and 
what a cruel war it becomes when every wound festers into 
a crime! 

This young and pretty woman, on whose fair features not 
a painful line was traced, and whose beautifully chiselled 
mouth smiled with a semblance of inward peace, was just 
then revolving thoughts little flattering to humanity gener- 
ally. She had, all young as she was, arrived at the ungra- 
cious conclusion that what are called the good are mere 
dupes, and that every step in life’s ladder only lifts us 
higher and higher out of the realm of kindly sympathies and 
affections. Reading the great moralist in a version of their 
own, such people deem all virtue “vanity,” and the strug- 
gles and sacrifices it entails, “vexation of spirit.” Let us 
frankly own that Mrs. Morris did not lose herself in any 
world of abstractions; she was eminently practical, and 
would no more have thrown away her time in speculations 
on humanity generally than would a whist-player, in the 
-crisis of the odd trick, have suffered his mind to wander 
away to the manufactoiy where the cards were made, and 
the lives and habits of those who made them. 

' And now she had to think over Sir William, of whom she 
was half afraid ; of Charles, whom she but half liked ; and 
of May, whom she half envied. There were none of them 
very deep or difficult to read, but she had seen enough of 
life to know that many people, like fairy tales, are simple 
in perusal, but contain some subtle maxim, some cunning 
truth, in their moral. Were these of this order? She could 
not yet determine ; how, therefore, should we ? And so we 
leave her. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


PORT-NA-WHAPPLE. 

Although time has not advanced, nor any change of season 
occurred to tinge the landscape with colder hues, we are 
obliged to ask our reader’s company to a scene as unlike 
the sunny land we have been sojourning in as possible. 
It is a little bay on the extreme north coast of Ireland, 
closely landlocked by rugged cliffs, whose basalt formation 
indicates a sort of half-brotherhood with the famed Cause- 
way. Seen from the tall precipices above, on a summer’s 
day, when a vertical sunlight would have fallen on the strip 
of yellow crescent-like beach along which white-crested 
waves slowly came and went, the spot was singularly beau- 
tiful, and the one long, low, white cottage which faced the 
sea would have seemed a most enviable abode, so peaceful, 
so calm it looked. Closely girt in on three sides by rocky 
cliffs, whose wild, fantastic outlines presented every imagi- 
nable form, now rising in graceful pinnacles and minarets, 
now standing out in all the stern majesty of some massive 
fortress or donjon keep, some blue and purple heaths might 
be seen clothing the little shelves of rock, and, wherever a 
deeper cleft occurred, some tall, broad-leaved ferns; but, 
except these, no other vegetation was to be met with. In- 
deed, the country for miles around displayed little else than 
the arid yellowish grass that springs from light sandy soil, 
the scant pasturage of mountain sheep. Directly in front 
of the bay, and with a distinctness occasionally startling, 
might be seen rising up from the sea a mass of stately 
cliffs, which seemed like a reflection of the Causeway. This 
was Staffa, something more than thirty-odd miles off, but 
which, in the thin atmosphere of a calm day, might easily 
be traced out from the little cove of Port-na-Whapple. 


PORT-NA-WHAPPLE. 


61 


Port-na-Whapple had once been a noted spot amongst 
fishermen ; the largest “ takes ” of salmon — and of the finest 
fish on the coast — had been made there. For three or four 
weeks in the early autumn the little bay was the scene of a 
most vigorous activity, the beach covered with rude huts 
of branches and boat canvas, the strand crowded with 
people, all busily engaged salting, drying, or packing the 
fish; boats launching, or standing in, deep-laden with 
their speckled freight; great fires blazing in every sheltered 
nook, where the cares of household were carried on in com- 
mon, for the fishermen who frequented the place lived like 
one large family. They came from the same village in the 
neighborhood, and, from time out of mind, had resorted to 
this bay as to a spot especially and distinctively their own. 
They had so identified themselves with the place that they 
were only known as Port-na-Whapple men; a vigorous, 
stalwart, sturdy race of fellows were they, too, that none 
molested or interfered with willingly. 

About forty years before the time we now speak of, a new 
proprietor had succeeded to the vast estate, which had once 
belonged to the Mark-Kers, and he quickly discovered that 
the most valuable part of his inheritance consisted in the 
fishing royalties of the coast. To assert a right to what 
nobody ever believed was the actual property of any one 
in particular, was not a very easy process. Had the Port- 
na-Whapple men been told that the air they breathed, or the 
salt sea they traversed, were heritable, they could as readily 
have believed it, as that any one should assert his claim to 
the strip of sandy beach where they and their fathers before 
them had fished for ages. 

Sir Archibald Beresford, however, was not a man to relin- 
quish a claim he had once preferred; he had right and 
parchment on his side, and he cared very little for prescrip- 
tion, or what he called the prejudices of a barbarous peas- 
antry. He went vigorously to work, served the trespassers 
with due notice to quit, and proceeded against the delin- 
quents at sessions. For years and years the conflict lasted, 
with various and changeful successes. Now, the landlord 
would seem triumphant, he had gained his decree, taken 
out his execution against the nets, the boats, and the tackle. 


62 


ONE OF THEM. 


but when the hour of enforcing the law arrived, his bailiffs 
had been beaten ignominiously from the field, and the 
fishermen left in full possession of the territory. Driven 
to desperation by the stubborn resistance. Sir ArcHy deter- 
mined on a bolder stand. He erected a cottage on the 
beach, and established himself there with a strong garrison 
of retainers well armed, and prepared to defend their rights. 
Port-na-Whapple was at length won, and although some 
bloody affrays did occasionally occur between the rival 
parties, the fishermen were compelled to abandon the station 
and seek a livelihood elsewhere. 

With a confidence inspired by some years of security. Sir 
Archy diminished his garrison, till at length it was his 
habit to come down to the bay accompanied by only a 
single servant. The old feud appeared to have died out; 
not, indeed, that the landlord met those signs of respect 
from his tenantry which imply good understanding between 
them; no welcome met him when he came, no regrets fol- 
lowed him when he departed, and even few of the country 
people accorded the courtesy of touching their hat as they 
met him passingly on the road. He was a “hard man,’" 
however, and cared little for such slights. At length — it 
was a season when he had exceeded his usual stay at the 
coast — there came a period of great distress amongst the 
fishermen. Day after day the boats went out and returned 
empty. It was in vain that they passed days and nights at 
sea, venturing far out upon that wild northern ocean, — the 
most treacherous in existence, — in vain they explored the 
bays, more perilous still than the open sea. Their sole 
subsistence was derived from the sea, and what was to be 
done? Gaunt famine was stamped on many a hardy face, 
and strong men dragged their limbs lazily and languidly, 
as if in sickness. As Sir Archy had never succeeded in* 
obtaining a tenant for the royalty of Port-na-Whapple, he 
amused himself gaffing the salmon, which he from time to 
time sent as presents to his friends; and even now, in 
this season of dearth, many a well-filled hamper found its 
way up the steep cliffs to be despatched to some remote 
corner of the kingdom. It was on one of these days that an 
enormous fish — far too big for any basket — was carefully 


PORT-NA-WHAPPLE. 


6S 

encased in a matting, and sent off by the Coleraine coach, 
labelled, “The largest ever gaffed at Port-na-Whapple.” 
Many an eye, half glazed with hunger, saw the fish, and 
gazed on the superscription as it was sent into the village, 
and looks of ominous meaning were cast over the deep cliffs 
towards the little cottage below. The morning after this, 
while Sir Archibald’s servant was at the post for his letters, 
a boat rowed into the little cove, and some men, having 
thrown out the anchor, waded ashore. 



“What brings you here, fellows?” cried Sir Arch}^, 
haughtily, as he met them on the beach. 

“We are come to gaff a bigger fish than yours o’ yester- 
day,” said the foremost, striking him on the forehead with 
the handle of the gaff; and he passed the spear through his. 
heart while he yet reeled under the blow. 

Notwithstanding the most active exertions of the Govern- 
ment of the day and the local magistrature, the authors of 
the foul deed were never discovered, and although there 
'could be no doubt they were well known to a large popula- 
tion, none betrayed them. More strange still, from that day 
and hour not a fish was ever taken at Port-na- Whapple t 


62 


ONE OF THEM. 


but when the hour of enforcing the law arrived, his bailiffs 
had been beaten ignominiously from the field, and the 
fishermen left in full possession of the territory. Driven 
to desperation by the stubborn resistance. Sir ArcHy deter- 
mined on a bolder stand. He erected a cottage on the 
beach, and established himself there with a strong garrison 
of retainers well armed, and prepared to defend their rights. 
Port-na-Whapple was at length won, and although some 
bloody affrays did occasionally occur between the rival 
parties, the fishermen were compelled to abandon the station 
and seek a livelihood elsewhere. 

With a confidence inspired by some years of security. Sir 
Archy diminished his garrison, till at length it was his 
habit to come down to the bay accompanied by only a 
single servant. The old feud appeared to have died out; 
not, indeed, that the landlord met those signs of respect 
from his tenantry which imply good understanding between 
them; no welcome met him when he came, no regrets fol- 
lowed him when he departed, and even few of the country 
people accorded the courtesy of touching their hat as they 
met him passingly on the road. He was a “hard man,’" 
however, and cared little for such slights. At length — it 
was a season when he had exceeded his usual stay at the 
coast — there came a period of great distress amongst the 
fishermen. Day after day the boats went out and returned 
empty. It was in vain that they passed days and nights at 
sea, venturing far out upon that wild northern ocean, — the 
most treacherous in existence, — in vain they explored the 
bays, more perilous still than the open sea. Their sole 
subsistence was derived from the sea, and what was to be 
done? Gaunt famine was stamped on many a hardy face, 
and strong men dragged their limbs lazily and languidly, 
as if in sickness. As Sir Archy had never succeeded in' 
obtaining a tenant for the royalty of Port-na-Whapple, he 
amused himself gaffing the salmon, which he from time to 
time sent as presents to his friends; and even now, in 
this season of dearth, many a well-filled hamper found its 
way up the steep cliffs to be despatched to some remote 
corner of the kingdom. It was on one of these days that an 
enormous fish — far too big for any basket — was carefully 


PORT-NA-WHAPPLE. 


encased in a matting, and sent off by the Coleraine coach, 
labelled, “The largest ever gaffed at Port-na- Whapple. 
Many an eye, half glazed with hunger, saw the fish, and 
gazed on the superscription as it was sent into the village, 
and looks of ominous meaning were cast over the deep cliffs 
towards the little cottage below. The morning after this, 
while Sir Archibald’s servant was at the post for his letters, 
a boat rowed into the little cove, and some men, having 
thrown out the anchor, waded ashore. ^ 



“What brings you here, fellows?” cried Sir Arch}^ 
haughtily, as he met them on the beach. 

“We are come to gaff a bigger fish than yours o’ yester- 
day,” said the foremost, striking him on the forehead with 
the handle of the gaff; and he passed the spear through his 
heart while he yet reeled under the blow. 

Notwithstanding the most active exertions of the Govern- 
ment of the day and the local magistrature, the authors of 
the foul deed were never discovered, and although there 
'could be no doubt they were well known to a large popula- 
tion, none betrayed them. More strange still, from that day 
and hour not a fish was ever taken at Port-na- Whapple t 


64 


ONE OF THEM. 


The property had fallen into Chancery, and, the interests 
of the claimants not being very closely guarded, the fisher- 
men were again at liberty to fish wherever they pleased. 
The privilege was of no value; the fish had deserted the 
spot, and even when they swarmed at Carrig-a-rede, and all 
along the shore, not one ever was taken there ! That the 
place was deemed “uncannie,” and that none frequented it, 
need not cause any wonder, and so the little cottage fell 
into ruin, the boat-house was undermined by the sea and 
carried away, and even of the little boat-pier only a few bare 
piles now remained to mark the place, when at length there 
arrived, from Dublin, a doctor to take charge of the Ballin- 
tray Dispensary, and, not being able to find a habitable 
spot in the village, he was fain to put the old cottage in 
repair, little influenced by the superstition that attached to 
the unholy place. 

He was an elderly man, whose family consisted of his 
wife and a single servant, and who, from the day of his 
first arrival, showed a decided repugnance to forming 
acquaintance with any, or holding other intercourse with 
his neighbors than what the cares of his profession required. 
In person he was tall, and even stately ; his features those 
of a man once handsome, but now disfigured by two red 
blotches over the eyes, and a tremulousness of the nether 
lip, indications of long years of dissipation, which his 
watery eye and shaking hand abundantly confirmed. 
Either, too, from a consciousness of his infirmity, or a 
shame not less deeply rooted, he never met the eyes of 
those he addressed, but turned his gaze either askance or 
to the ground, giving him then an expression very different 
from the look he wore when alone and unobserved. At such 
times the face was handsome but haughty, a character of 
almost defiant pride in the eye, while the angles of the 
mouth were slightly drawn down, as one sees in persons of 
proud temperament. A few words will suffice for so much 
of his history as the reader need know. Herbert Layton 
had the proud distinction of being a Fellow of Trinity Col- 
lege, Dublin, at the age of twenty-one, and, three years 
later, won, against many distinguished competitors, the 
chair of medicine in the university. His whole academic 


PORT-NA-WHAPPLE. 


65 


career had been a succession of triumphs, and even able 
men made this excuse for not obtaining honors, that they 
were “in Layton’s division.” His was one of those rare 
natures to which acquirements the most diverse and oppo- 
site are easy. The most critical knowledge of the classics 
was combined in him with a high-soaring acquaintance with 
science, and while he carried away the gold medal for verse 
composition, the very same week announced him as prize- 
man for microscopic researches. And while he thus swept 
the college of honors, he was ever foremost in all athletic 
games and manly exercises. Indeed, the story goes that 
the gown in which he won his fellowship had been hastily 
thrown over the jacket of the cricketer. If the blemish 
served to afflict those who felt the truest friendship for 
him, it rather contributed to exaggerate the prestige of his 
name that he was haughty and even overbearing in manner; 
not meanly condescending to be vain of his successes and 
the high eminence he had won, — far from it, no man treated 
such triumphs with such supercilious levity, boldly declaring 
that they were within the reach of all, and that it was a 
simple question of application to any, — his proud demeanor 
had its source in a certain sense of self-reliance, and a 
haughty conviction that the occasion had not come — might 
never come — to show the world the great “stuff that was 
in him; ” and thus, many a rumor ran, “Layton is sorry for 
having taken to medicine; it can lead to nothing: at the 
Bar he must have gained every eminence, entered Parlia- 
ment, risen Heaven knows to what or where. Layton can- 
not conceal his dissatisfaction with a career of no high 
rewards.” And thus they sought for the explanation of that 
demeanor which hurt the pride of many and the sympathy 
of all. 

Partly from the aggressive nature of the passion of self- 
esteem, never satisfied if with each day it has not made 
further inroad, partly, perhaps, from the estrangement of 
friends, wearied out by endless pretensions, Layton at last 
lived utterly companionless and alone. His habits of hard 
work made this the less remarkable ; but stories were soon 
abroad that he had abandoned himself to drink, and that 
the hours believed to be passed in study were in reality 

0 


66 


ONE OF THEM. 


spent in debauch and intoxication. His appearance but 
unhappily gave some corroboration to the rumor. He 
had grown careless in his dress, slouching in his walk ; his 
pale, thoughtful face was often flushed with a glow exercise 
never gives; and his clear bright eye no longer met 
another’s with boldness. He neglected, besides, all his 
collegiate duties, his pupils rarely could obtain sight of 
him, his class-room was always deserted, a brief notice 
“that the Regius Professor was indisposed, and would 
not lecture,” remaining affixed to the door for the entire 
session. 

While this once great reputation w^as thus crumbling away, 
there arose another, and, the time considered, a far more 
dangerous imputation. It was. the terrible period of 1807, 
and men said that Layton was deep in all the designs of the 
Emmet party. So completely was the insurrection limited 
to men of the very humbler walks in life, so destitute was 
the cause of all support from persons of station or influence, 
that it is scarcely possible to picture the shock — almost 
passing belief — of the world when this report began to gain 
currency and credit. Were the public to-morrow to learn 
that some great and trusted political leader was found out 
to be secretly in the pay of France or Russia, it would not 
excite more incredulous horror than at that day was caused 
by imputing rebellious projects to Herbert Layton. 

The honor of the University was too deepl}^ involved to 
suffer such a charge to be rashly circulated. The board 
summoned the Regius Professor to attend before them. He 
returned his reply to the summons on the back of a letter 
constituting him a member of the “United Irishmen,” the 
great rebel association of the day. As much out of regard 
to their own fame, as in pit}^ for a rashness that might have 
cost him his life, they destroyed the document and deprived 
him of his fellowship. 

From the day that he wandered forth a ruined, houseless, 
destitute man, little is known of him. At long intervals 
of time, men would say, “ Could that have been poor Her- 
bert, that ‘ Layton,’ taken up by the police for drunkenness, 
or accused of some petty crime? Was it he who was 
charged with sending threatening letters to this one, or 


PORT-NA-WHAPPLE. 


67 


making insolent demands on that?” Another would say, 
“I could swear I saw Layton as a witness in one of those 
pot-house trials where the course of law proceedings is 
made the matter of vulgar jest.” Another met him hawk- 
ing quack medicines in a remote rural district. 

It is not necessary we should follow him through these 
changes, each lower than the last in degradation. We 
arrive by a bound at a period when he kept a small apothe- 
cary’s shop in a little village of North Wales, and where, 
with seeming reformation of character, he lived discreetly, 
and devoted himself assiduously to the education of an 
only son. 

By dint of immense effort, and sacrifices the most painful, 
he succeeded in entering his boy at Cambridge; but in his 
last year, his means failing, he had obtained a tutorship 
for him, — no less a charge than that of the young Marquis 
of Agincourt, — an appointment to which his college tutor 
had recommended him. Almost immediately after this, a 
vacancy occurring in the little village of Ballintray for a 
dispensary doctor, Layton applied for the appointment, 
and obtained it. Few, indeed, of the electors had ever 
heard of his name, but all were astonished at the ample 
qualifications tendered by one willing to accept such hum- 
ble duties. The rector of the parish. Dr. Millar, was, 
though his junior, perhaps, the only one well conversant with 
Layton’s story, for he had been his contemporary at the 
University. 

On the two or three occasions on which they met, Dr. 
Millar never evinced by the slightest allusion any knowledge 
of the other’s antecedents. He even, by adroit reference 
to English life and habits, in contradistinction to Irish, 
seemed to infer that his experiences were more at home 
there; and whatever might have been Layton’s own secret 
promptings, there was nothing in the clergyman’s manner 
to provoke the slightest constraint or awkwardness. 

The reader is now sufficiently informed to accompany us 
to the little cottage on the beach of Port-na-Whapple. It 
is a warm autumnal afternoon, the air calm and still, but 
the great sea comes heaving in, wave swelling after wave, 
as though moved by a storm. Strange contrast to that loud 


68 


ONE OF THEM. 


thundering ocean the little peaceful cottage, whose blue 
smoke rises in a thin, straight column into the air. The 
door is open, and a few ducks, with their young brood, are 
waddling up and down the blue stone step, as though educat- 
ing their young in feats of difficulty and daring. On a 
coarse wooden perch within the hall sits a very old gray 
parrot, so old that his feathers have assumed a sort of half- 
woolly look, and his bleared eyes only open at intervals, as 
though he had seen quite enough of this world already, and 
could afford to take it easily. In the attitude of the head, 
partially thrown forward and slightly on one side, there is a 
mock air of thought and reflection, marvellously aided by 
a habit the creature has of muttering to himself such little 
broken ends of speech as he possesses. Layton had bought 
him a great many years back, having fancied he could 
detect a resemblance in him to a once famed vice-provost 
of Trinity, after whom he called him “Dr. Barret,” a 
name the bird felt proud of, as well he might, and seemed 
even now, in his half dotage, to warm up on hearing it. 
Through the open door of a little room adjoining might be 
seen a very pale, sickly woman, who coughed almost inces- 
santly as she bent over an embroidery-frame. Though not 
much more than middle-aged, her hair was perfectly white, 
and deep discolorations — the track of tears for many a day 
— marked her worn cheeks. 

On the opposite side of the hall, in a small room whose 
furniture was an humble truckle-bed, and a few shelves with 
physic-bottles, the doctor was engaged at his toilet, if by 
so pretentious a term we may record the few preparations 
he was making to render his every-day appearance more pre- 
sentable. As he stood thus in trousers and shirt, his broad . 
chest and powerful neck exposed, he seemed to testify even 
yet to the athletic vigor of one who was known as the best 
hurler and racket-player of his day. He had been swim- 
ming a long stretch far out to sea, and air and exercise 
together had effaced many of those signs of dissipation 
which his face usually wore, while in his voice there was a 
frank boldness that only came back to him at some rare 
intervals. 

“I can fancy, Grace,” cried he, loud enough to be heard 


PORT-NA-WHAPPLE. 


69 


across the hall/‘ that Millar is quite proud of his condescen- 
sion. The great rector of the parish, man of fortune 
besides, stooping to invite the dispensary doctor! Twelve 
hundred per annum associating with eighty ! To be sure he 
says, ‘ A ou will only meet two friends and neighbors of 
mine,’ as though to intimate, ‘ I am doing this on the sly; I 
don’t mean to make you a guest ou field-days.’ ” 

She muttered something, speedily interrupted by a cough; 
and he, not caring to catch her words, went on : — 

“It is a politeness that cuts both ways, and makes me as 
uncomfortable as him. This waistcoat has a beggarly 
account of empty button-holes; and as for my coat, nothing 
but a dim candle-light would screen its deficiencies. I was 
a fool to accept! ” cried he, impatiently. 

“Don’t go, Tom! don’t go!” screamed the parrot, 
addressing him by a familiar sobriquet. 

“And why not, doctor?” said Layton, laughing at the 
apropos. 

“Don’t go! don’t go! ” repeated the bird. 

“Give me your reasons, old boy, and not impossible is it 
I’ll agree with you. What do you say, Grace?” added he, 
advancing to the door of his room the better to catch her 
words. 

“It is to them the honor is done^ not to you,” said she, 
faintly, and as though the speech cost her heavily. 

“Very hard to persuade the rector of that, — very hard to 
convince the man of silver side-dishes and cut decanters 
that he is not the patron of him who dines off delf and 
drinks out of pewter. Is this cravat too ragged, Grace? I 
think I ’d better wear my black one.” 

“ Yes, the black one,” said she, coughing painfully. 

‘‘ After all, it is no grand occasion, — a little party of 
four.” 

‘‘What a swell ! what a swell ! ” shrieked the parrot. 

“Ain’t I? By Jove,” laughed Layton, “the doctor is 
marvellous in his remarks to-day.” 

“ There, I have done my best with such scanty ‘ proper- 
ties,’ ” said he, as he turned away from the glass. “ The 
greatest peril to a shabby man is the self-imposed obligation 
to show he is better than he looks. It is an almost invari- 
able blunder.” 


70 


ONE OF THEM. 


She muttered something inaudibly, and, as usual, he went 
on with his own thoughts. 

“One either assumes a more dictatorial tone, or takes 
more than his share of the talk, or is more apt to contradict 
the great man of the company, — at least I do.” 

“ Don’t go, Tom! don’t! don’t! ” called out Dr. Barret. 

“ Not go? — after all these splendid preparations! ” said 
Layton, with a laugh. “ After yourself exclaiming, ‘What 
a swell ! ’ ” 

“ It ’ll never pay, — never pay, — never pay ! ” croaked 
out Poll. 

“That I’m sure of, doctor. I never knew one of these 
politic things that did ; but yet we go on through life prac- 
tising them in the face of all their failure, dancing attendance 
at levees, loitering in antechambers, all to be remembered by 
some great man who is just as likely to hate the sight of us. 
However, this shall be my last transgression.” 

The faint female voice muttered some indistinct words 
about what he “ owed to himself,” and the “ rightful station 
that belonged to him ; ” but he speedily cut the reflection short 
as he said : “So long as a man is poor as I am, he can only 
hold his head high by total estrangement from the world. 
Let him dare to mix with it, and his threadbare coat and 
patched shoes will soon convince him that they will extend 
no equality to him who comes among them in such beggarly 
fashion. With what authority, I ask, can he speak, whose 
very poverty refutes his sentiments, and the simple question 
stands forth unanswerable : ‘ If this man knew so much, why 
is he as we see him? ’ ” 

“ This is, then, to say that misfortune is never unmerited. 
Surely you do not mean that, Herbert?” said she, with an 
eagerness almost painful. 

“It is exactly what I would say, — that for all the pur- 
poses of worldly judgments upon men, there is no easier rule 
than to assume that they who fail deserve failure. Richelieu 
never asked those who sought high command, ‘ Are you skil- 
ful in the field? are you clever in strategy?’ but ‘Are you 
lucky?”’ 

A deep sigh was her only answer. 

“I wonder who Millar’s fourth man is to be? Colonel 


P( )R1 -NA-WHAPPLE. 


71 


Karstairs, I know, is one ; a man of importance to me, 
Grace,” said he, laughing; “ a two-guinea subscriber to the 
dispensary ! How I wish I were in a more fitting spirit of 
submissiveness to my betters ; and, by ill fortune, this is one 
of my rebellious days ! ” 

“ Don’t go, Tom ! Don’t go, I say ! ” yelled out Poll. 

“ Prophet of evil, and evil prophet, hold your tongue! I 
will go,” said he, sternly, and as if answering a responsible 
adviser ; and setting his hat on, with a certain air of dogged 
defiance, he left the house. 

His wife arose, and with feeble steps tottered to the door 
of the cottage to look after him. A few steps brought him 
to the foot of the cliff, up the steep face of which a zigzag 
path led upwards for fully four hundred feet, a narrow track 
trodden by the bare feet of hardy mountaineers into some 
semblance of a pathway, but such as few denizens of towns 
would willingly have taken. Layton, however, stepped along 
like one whose foot was not new to the heather ; nay, the 
very nature of the ascent, the bracing air of the sea, and 
something in the peril itself of the way, seemed to revive in 
the man his ancient vigor; and few, seeing him from the 
beach below, as he boldly breasted the steep bluff, or sprang 
lightly over some fissured chasm, would have deemed him 
one long since past the prime of life, — one who had spent 
more than youth, and its ambitions, in excess. 

At first, the spirit to press onward appeared to possess 
him entirely ; but ere he reached the half ascent, he turned to 
look down on the yellow strip of strand and the little cot- 
tage, up to whose very door-sill now the foam seemed curl- 
ing. Never before had its isolation seemed so complete. 
Not a sail was to be seen seaward, not even a gull broke the 
stillness with his cry ; a low, mournful plash, with now and 
then a rumbling half thunder, as the sea resounded within 
some rocky cavern, were the only sounds, and Layton sat 
down on a mossy ledge, to drink in the solitude in all its 
fulness. Amidst thoughts of mingled pain and pleasure, 
memories of long-past struggles, college triumphs and college 
friendships, came dreary recollections of dark reverses, when 
the world seemed to fall back from him, and leave him to 
isolation. Few had ever started with more ambitious yearn- 


72 


ONE OF THEM. 


ings, — few with more personal assurances of success. What- 
ever he tried he was sure to be told, “ There lies your road, 
Layton ; that is the path will lead you to high rewards.” He 
had, besides, — strange inexplicable gift, — that prestige of 
superiority about him that made men cede the place to him, 
as if by prescription. “And what had come of it all? — 
what had come of it all?” he cried out aloud, suddenly 
awaking out of the past to face the present. “Why have 
I failed?” asked he wildly of himself. “Is it that others 
have passed me in the race? Have my successes been dis- 
covered to have been gained by trick or fraud ? Have my 
acquirements been pronounced mere pretensions? These, 
surely, cannot be alleged of one whose fame can be attested 
by almost every scientific and literary journal of the empire. 
No, no ! the explanation is easier, — the poet was wrong, — • 
Fortune is a Deity, and some men are born to be unlucky.” 

With a sudden start he arose, and rallied from these mus- 
ings. He quickly bethought himself of his engagement, and 
continued his way upward. When he reached the tableland 
at top, it wanted but a few minutes of five o’clock, and five 
was the hour for which he was invited, and there was yet two 
miles to walk to the Rectory. Any one who has lived for a 
considerable space estranged from society and its require- 
ments, will own to the sense of slavery impressed by a return 
to the habits of the world. He will feel that every ordinance 
is a tyranny, and the necessity of being dressed for this, or 
punctual for that, a downright bondage. 

Thus chafing and irritable, Layton walked along. Never 
was man less disposed to accept hospitality as a polite atten- 
tion, and more than once did he halt, irresolute whether he 
should not retrace his steps towards home. “ No man,” 
thought he, “ could get off more cheaply. They would 
ascribe it all to my ignorance. What should a poor devil 
with eighty pounds a year know of politeness? and when I 
had said, I had forgotten the invitation, they would forget 
me ! ” 

Thus self-accusing and self-disparaging, he reached the 
little avenue gate, which by a trim gravel walk led up to 
the parsonage. The neat lodge, with its rustic porch, all 
overgrown with a rich japonica, — the well-kept road, along 


PORT-NA-WHAPPLE. 


7a 


whose sides two little paved channels conducted the water, 
— the flower-plats at intervals in the smooth emerald turf, 
were all assurances of care and propriety ; and as Layton 
marked them, he muttered, “ This is one of the lucky ones.’" 

As Layton moved on with laggard step, he halted fre- 
quently to mark some new device or other of ornamental 
gardening. Now it was a tasteful group of rock-work, over 
which gracefully creepers hung in festoons ; now it was a 
little knot of flowering shrubs, so artfully intermingled as 
to seem as though growing from a single stem ; now a 
tiny fishpond could be descried through the foliage ; even 
the rustic seats, placed at points of commanding view, 
seemed to say how much the whole scene had been planned 
for enjoyment, and that every tint of foliage, every undula- 
tion of the sward, every distant glimpse caught through a 
narrow vista, had all been artfully contrived to yield its 
share of pleasure. 

“ I w'onder,” muttered he, bitterly, to himself, — “I wonder 
when this man preaches on a Sunday against wealth and its 
temptations, reminding others that out- of this world men take 
nothing, but go out upon their new pilgrimage naked and 
poor, does he ever turn a thought to all these things, so 
beautiful now, and with that vitality that will make them 
beautiful years and years after he himself has become dust? 
I have little doubt,’" added he, hurriedly, “ that he says all 
this, and believes it too. Here am I, after just as many de- 
terminations to eat no man’s salt, nor sit down to any board 
better than my own, — here I am to-day creeping like a poor 
parasite to a great man’s table, — ay, he is a great man to 
me! 

“How strange is the casuistry, too, with which humble 
people like myself persuade themselves that they go into 
the world against their will ; that they do so purely from 
motives of policy, forgetting all the while how ignoble i& 
the motive they lay claim to. 

“The old Roman moralist told us that poverty had no- 
heavier infliction in its train than that it made men ridicu- 
lous, but I tell him he is wrong. It makes men untrue to- 
’themselves, false to their own hearts, enemies to their own 
convictions, doing twenty things every day of their lives that 


74 


ONE OF THEM. 


they affect to deem prudent, and know to be contemptible. I 
wish my worthy host had left me unnoticed ! ” 

He was at last at the door, and rang the bell with the 
impatient boldness of one chafing and angry with himself. 
There was a short delay, for the servants were all engaged 
in the dining-room, and Layton rang again. 

“Dr. Millar at home?” asked he, sternly, of the well- 
powdered footman who stood before him. 

“ Yes, sir ; he ’s at dinner.” 

“ At dinner ! I was invited to dinner ! ” 

“I know, sir; and the doctor waited for half an hour 
beyond the time ; but he has only gone in this moment.” 

It is just possible, in Layton’s then frame of mind, that 
he had turned away and left the house, never to re-enter it, 
when a slight circumstance determined him to the opposite. 
This was the footman’s respectful manner as he took the hat 
from his hand, and threw wide the door for him to pass on- 
ward. Ay, it is ever so ! Things too trivial and insignifi- 
cant for notice in this life are every hour infiuencing our 
actions and swaying our motives. Men have stormed a 
breach for a smile, and gone out in black despair with life 
just for a cold word or a cold look. So much more quickly 
does the heart influence than the head, even with the very 
cleverest amongst us. 

As Layton entered the dining-room, his host rose to 
receive him, and, with a polished courtesy, apologized for 
having gone to table before his arrival. “ I gave you half 
an hour, doctor, and I would have given you longer, but 
that I am aware a physician is not always master of his 
time. Colonel Karstairs you are acquainted with. Let me 
present you to Mr. Ogden. Dr. Layton, Mr. Ogden.” 

There is no manner that so impresses the world with the 
idea of self-sufficiency and pretension as that of the bashful 
man contending against his own diffidence ; and this same 
timidity, that one would imagine so easily rubbed off by con- 
tact with the world, actually increases with age, and, how- 
ever glossed over by an assumed ease and a seeming indif- 
ference, lives to torment its possessor to his last day. Of 
this Layton was an unhappy victim, and \^hile imbued with" 
a consummate self-esteem, he had a painful consciousness of 


PORT-NA-WHAPPLE. 


75 


the criticism that his manner and breeding might call forth. 
The result of this conflict was to render him stern, defiant, 
and even overbearing, — traits which imparted their character 
even to his features in first intercourse with strangers. 

“ I don’t know how Halford managed it,” said Mr. Ogden, 
as he reseated himself at table, “ but I ’ve heard him say 
that his professional engagements never lost him a dinner.” 

Simple as were these words, they contained a rebuke, and 
the air of the man that uttered them did not diminish their 
significance. 

Mr. Ogden was a thin, pale, pock-marked man, with an 
upstanding head of gray hair, a very high and retreating 
forehead, and a long upper lip, — one of those men in whom 
the face, disproportionately large for the head, always gives 
the impression of a self-sufficient nature. He had a harsh, 
sharp voice, with an articulation of a most painful accuracy, 
even his commonplaces being enunciated with a sort of 
distinct impressiveness, as though to imply that his copper 
was of more value than another man’s gold. Nor was this 
altogether a delusion ; he had had a considerable experience 
of mankind and the world, and had contrived to pass his bad 
money on them as excellent coin of the realm. He was — 
and it is very distinctive in its mark — one of those men 
who always live in a class above their own, and, whatever 
be the recognition and the acceptance they have there, are 
ever regarded by their rightful equals as something pecu- 
liarly privileged and superior. 

“ My Lord ” would have called him a useful man ; his 
friends all described him as “ influential.” But he was some- 
thing greater than either, — he was a successful man. We 
are constantly told that the efficiency of our army is mainly 
owing to the admirable skill and ability of its petty officers. 
That to their unobtrusive diligence, care, and intelligence 
we are indebted for all those qualities by which a force is 
rendered manageable, and victories are won. Do we not see 
something very similar in our Bureaucracy? Is not our 
Government itself almost entirely in the hands of “petty 
officers”? The great minister who rises in his place in 
Parliament, the exponent of some grand policy, the author 
of some extensive measure, is, after all, little more than the 


76 


ONE OF THEM. 


mouthpiece of some “ Mr. Ogden” in Downing Street; some 
not very brilliant or very statesmanlike personage, but a man 
of business habits, every-day intelligence, and long official 
traditions, — one of those three or four men in all England 
who can say to a minister, “ It can’t be done,” and yet give 
no reason why. 

The men of this Ogden stamp are, in reality, great influ- 
ences in a country like ours, where frequent changes of 
government require that the conditions of office should be 
transmitted through something higher and more responsible 
than mere clerks. They are the stokers who keep the fires 
alight and the steam up till a new captain comes aboard, and, 
though neither commanders nor pilots, they do manage to 
influence the course of the ship, by the mere fact that they 
can diminish the force of her speed or increase its power 
without any one being very well aware of how or wherefore. 

Such men as these are great people in that dingy old 
house, whose frail props without are more than emblems of 
what goes on within. Of their very offices men speak as of 
the Holy of Holies ; places where none enter fearlessly save 
secretaries of state, and at whose door inferior mortals wipe 
their feet with heart-sinking fear and lowness of spirit, re- 
hearsing not unfrequently the abject words of submissiveness 
with which they are to approach such greatness. 

It is curious, therefore, to see one of these men in private 
life. One wishes to know how M. Houdin will look without 
his conjuring-rod, or what Coriolanus will do in plain 
clothes; for, after all, he must come into the world unat- 
tended with his belongings, and can no more carry Downing 
Street about with him than could Albert Smith carry 
“China” to a dinner-party. 

And now the soup has been brought back, and the fish, 
somewhat cold and mangled, to be sure, has been seiwed 
to Dr. Layton; the servant has helped him to an admi- 
rable glass of sherry, and the dinner proceeds pleasantly 
enough, — not, however, without its casualties. But of 
these the next chapter will tell us. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A DINNER AT THE RECTORY. 

There are men who have specialities for giving admirable 
“little dinners,” and little dinners are unquestionably the 
ne plus ultra of social enjoyment. To accomplish these 
there are far more requirements necessary than the world 
usually wots of. They are not the triumphs of great 
houses, with regiments of yellow plush and gold candelabra ; 
they affect no vast dining-rooms, nor a private band. They 
are, on the contrary, the prerogatives of moderate incomes, 
middle-aged or elderly hosts, usually bachelors, with small 
houses, furnished in the perfection of comfort, without any 
display, but where everything, from the careful disposal of 
a fire-screen to the noiseless gait of the footman, shows you 
that a certain supervision and discipline prevail, even 
though you never hear an order and rarely see a servant. 

Where these people get their cooks, I never could make 
out! It is easy enough to understand that fish and soup, 
your sirloin and your woodcock, could be well and carefully 
dressed, but who devised that exquisite little entree^ what 
genius presided over that dish of macaroni, that omelette, 
or that souffle? Whence, besides, came the infinite taste of 
the whole meal, with its few dishes, served in an order of 
artistic elegance? And that butler, too, — how quiet, how 
observant, how noiseless his ministration; how steady his 
decanter hand I Where did they find him ? And that pale 
sherry, and that Chablis, and that exquisite cup of Mocha? 
Don’t tell me that you or I can have them all as good, — that 
you know his wine-merchant, and have the receipt for his 
coffee. You might as well tell me you could sing like Mario 
because you employ his hairdresser. No, no; they who 
accomplish these things are peculiar organizations. They 


78 


ONE OF THEM. 


have great gifts of order and system, the nicest perceptions 
of taste, considerable refinement, and no small share of sen- 
suality. They possess a number of high qualities in minia- 
ture, and are, so to say, “great men seen through the wrong 
end of a telescope.” 

Of this the Rev. Dr. Millar was a pleasing specimen. 
With that consciousness of having done everything pos- 
sible for your comfort which makes a good host, he had 
a racy gratification in quietly watching your enjoyment. 
Easily and unobtrusively marking your taste for this or 
preference for that, he would contrive that your liking 
should be gratified, as though by mere accident, and never 
let you know yourself a debtor for the attentions bestowed 
upon you. It was his pride to have a perfect establishment: 
would that all vanity were as harmless and as pleasurable 
to others ! And now to the dinner, which, in our digression, 
we are forgetting. 

‘‘Try these cutlets, doctor,” interposed the host. “It is 
a receipt I brought back with me from Provence; I think 
you ’ll find them good.” 

“An over-rich, greasy sort of cuisine is the Provenqale,” 
remarked Ogden. 

“And yet almost every good cook of France comes from 
that country,” said Layton. 

Ogden raised his large double eye-glass to look at the man 
who thus dared to “cap” a remark of his. 

“I wish we could get out of the bastard French cookery 
all the clubs give us nowadays,” said the Colonel. “You 
neither see a good English joint nor a well-dressed entree.” 

“An emblem of the alliance,” said Layton, “where each 
nation spoils something of its own in the effort to be more 
palatable to its neighbor.” 

“Apparently, then, sir, the great statesmen who promoted 
this policy are not fortunate enough to enjoy your sanc- 
tion ? ” said Ogden, with an insolent air. 

“My sanction is scarcely the word for it. They have 
not, certainly, my approval.” 

“I hope you like French wines, though, doctor,” said the 
host, eager to draw the conversation into some easier chan- 
nel. “Taste that Sauterne.” 


A DINNER AT THE RECTORY. 


79 


“It only wants age to be perfect,” said the doctor, sip- 
ping. “All these French white wines require more time 
than the red.” 

Ogden again looked through his glass at the dispensary 
doctor who thus dared to give judgment on a question of 
such connoisseurship ; and then, with the air of one not 
easily imposed on, said, — 

“You have travelled much abroad, perhaps?” 

Layton bowed a silent assent. 

“I think I saw a German diploma amongst the papers 
you forwarded to our committee ? ” said Karstairs. 

“Yes, I am a doctor of medicine of Gottingen.” 

“A university, I verily believe, only known to English- 
men through Canning’s doggerel,” said Ogden. 

“I trust not, sir. I hope that Blumenbach’s name alone 
would rescue it from such oblivion.” 

“I like the Germans, I confess,” broke in the Colonel. 
“I served with Arentschild’s Hanoverians, and never knew 
better or pleasanter fellows.” 

“Oh, I by no means undervalue Germans! ” said Ogden. 
“I think we, at this very moment, owe to them no small 
gratitude for suggesting to us the inestimable practice of 
examination for all public employment.” 

“In my mind, the greatest humbug of an age of humbug! ” 
said Layton, fiercely. 

“Nay, doctor, you will, I ’m certain, recall your words 
when I tell you that my friend here, Mr. Ogden, is one of. 
the most distinguished promoters of that system.” 

“The gentleman would confer a far deeper obligation 
upon me by sustaining than by withdrawing his thesis,” 
said Ogden, with a sarcastic smile. 

“To undertake the task of sustaining the cause of igno- 
rance against knowledge,” said Layton, quietly, “would be 
an ungrateful one always. In the present case, too, it 
would be like pitting myself against that gentleman oppo- 
site. I decline such an office.” 

“So, then, you confess that such would be your cause, 
sir?” said Ogden, triumphantly. 

“No, sir; but it would partake so much the appearance 
of such a struggle, that I cannot accept it. What I called a 


80 


ONE OF THEM. 


liumbug was the attempt to test men’s fitness for the public 
service by an examination at which the most incapable 
might distinguish himself, and the ablest not pass. The 
system of examination begot the system of ‘ grinding, ’ — a 
vulgar term for a more vulgar practice, and a system the 
most fatal to all liberal education, limiting study to a ques- 
tion-and-answer formula, and making acquirements only 
desirable when within the rubric of a Government commis- 
sion. Very different would have been the result if the 
diploma of certain recognized educational establishments 
had been required as qualification to serve the State; if 
the law ran, ‘ You shall be a graduate of this university, or 
that college, or possess the licentiate degree of that 
school.’ ” 

“Your observations seem, then, rather directed against 
<iertain commissioners than the system they practise ? ” said 
Odgen, sarcastically. 

“Scarcely, sir. My experience is very limited. I never 
met but one of them ! ” 

The Colonel laughed heartily at this speech, — he could n’t 
help it; and even the host, mortified as he was, gave a half- 
smile. As for Ogden, his pale face grew a shade sicklier, 
and his green eyes more fishy. 

‘‘To question the post-office clerk or the landing waiter,” 
<3ontinued Layton, with fresh warmth, — for when excited he 
could rarely control himself, — “to test some poor aspirant 
for eighty pounds per annum in his knowledge of mathe- 
matics or his skill in physical geography, while you make 
governors that cannot speak correctly, and vice-governors 
whose despatches are the scorn of Downing Street; to i^ro- 
claim that you want your tide-waiter to be a moral philoso- 
pher, but that the highest offices in the State may be held 
by any political partisan active enough, troublesome enough, 
and noisy enough to make himself worth purchase; you 
demand logarithms and special geometry from a clerk in 
the Customs, while you make a mill-owner a cabinet min- 
ister on the simple showing of his persevering; and your 
commissioners, too, — ‘ Quis custodiet, ipsos custodes! ’ ” 

“You probably, however, submitted to be examined, 
once on a time, for your medical degree? ” asked Ogden. 


A DINNER AT THE RECTORY. 


81 


YeSj sir; and that ordeal once passed, I had ample leis- 
ure to unlearn the mass of useless rubbish required of me, 
and to address myself to the real cares of my profession. 
But do you suppose that if it were demanded of me to sub- 
ject myself to another examination to hold the humble post 
I now fill, that I should have accepted it ? ” 

“I really cannot answer that question,’’ said Ogden, 
superciliously. 

“Then I will, sir. I would not have done so. Eighty 
pounds a year is a very attractive bribe, but it may require 
too costly a sacrifice to win it.” 

'‘The neighborhood is a very poor one,” struck in Millar, 
“and, indeed, if it had not been for the strenuous exertions 
of my friend Colonel Karstairs here, we should never have 
raised the forty pounds which gives us the claim for as 
much more in the presentments.” 

“And yet you got two hundred and thirty for a regatta 
in June last! ” said Layton, with a quiet smile. 

“The way of the world, doctor; the way of the world! 
Men are never stingy in what regards their own amuse- 
ments ! ” 

“That is the port, doctor; the other is Lafitte,” said the 
rector, as he saw Layton hesitate about a choice. 

And now the talk took a capricious turn, as it will do 
occasionally, in those companies where people are old- 
fashioned enough to “ sit ” after dinner, and let the decanter 
circulate. Even here, however, conversation could not run 
smoothly. Ogden launched into the manufacture of wines, 
the chemistry of adulterations, and the grape disease, on 
every one of which Layton found something to correct him, 
— some slip or error to set right, — an annoyance all the 
more poignant that Karstairs seemed to enjoy it heartily. 
From fabricated wines to poisons the transition was easy, 
and they began to talk of certain curious trials wherein the 
medical testimony formed the turning-point of conviction. 
Here, again, Layton was his superior in information, and 
made the superiority felt. Of what the most subtle tests 
consisted, and wherein their fallacy lay, he was thoroughly 
master, while his retentive memory supplied a vast variety 
of curious and interesting illustration. 

6 


82 


ONE OF THEM. 


Has our reader ever “assisted ” at a scene where the great 
talker of a company has unexpectedly found himself con- 
fronted by some unknown, undistinguished competitor, who, 
with the pertinacity of an actual persecution, will follow him 
through all the devious windings of an evening’s conversa- 
tion, ever present to correct, contradict, amend, or refute? 
In vain the hunted martyr seeks out some new line of coun- 
try, or starts new game ; his tormentor is ever close behind 
him. Ogden wandered from law to literature. He tried 
art, scientific discovery, religious controversy, agriculture, 
foreign travel, the drama, and field sports; and Layton fol- 
lowed him through all, — always able to take up the theme 
and carry it beyond where the other had halted. If Millar 
underwent all the tortures of an unhappy host at this, Kar- 
stairs was in ecstasy. He had been spending a week at the 
Rectory in Ogden’s company, and it seemed a sort of just 
retribution now that this dictatorial personage should have 
met his persecutor. Layton, always drinking deeply as the 
wine came to him, and excited by a sort of conflict which 
for years back he had never known, grew more and more 
daring in his contradictions, less deferential, and less fear- 
ful of offending. Whatever little reserve he had felt at 
first, oozed away as the evening advanced. The law of 
physics is the rule of morals, and as the swing of the pen- 
dulum is greater in proportion to the retraction, so the bash- 
ful man, once emancipated from his reserve, becomes the 
most daringly aggressive to mortals. Not content with re- 
futing, he now ridiculed ; his vein of banter was his richest, 
and he indulged it in all the easy freedom of one who defied 
reprisals. Millar tried once or twice to interpose, and was 
at last fain to suggest that, as the decanters came round 
untouched, they should adjourn to coffee. 

Ogden rose abruptly at the intimation, and, muttering 
something inaudible, led the way into the drawing-room. 

“You have been too hard upon him, doctor,” whispered 
Karstairs, as he walked along at Layton’s side. “You 
should be more careful ; he is a man of note on the other 
side of the Channel ; he was a Treasury Lord for some six 
months once, and is always in office somewhere. I see you 
are rather sorry for this yourself.” 


A DINNER AT THE RECTORY. 


83 . 


“Sorry ! I ’m sorry to leave that glorious Madeira, which 
I know I shall never taste again,'* said Layton, sternly. 

“Are you a smoker. Dr. Layton?** said the host. “If 
so, don*t forget this house gives all a bachelor*s privileges.. 
Try these cheroots.” 

“Liberty Hall!** chimed in the Colonel, with a vacant 
laugh. 

“Not a bad name for your dining-room, Millar,** said 
Ogden, bitterly. 

A slight shrug was the parson’s answer. 

“Is this man a frequent guest here?** he asked again, in 
a low whisper. 

“It is his first time. I need scarcely say, it shall be his 
last,** replied Millar, as cautiously. 

“I felt for 3^ou, Millar. I felt what pain he must have 
been giving you, though, for myself, I pledge you my word 
it was most amusing; his violence, his presumption, the 
dictatorial tone in which he affirmed his opinions, were high 
comedy. I was half sorry when you proposed coffee.** 

Under pretence of admiring some curiously carved chess- 
men, Karstairs had withdrawn the doctor into a small room 
adjoining; but, in reality, his object was the friendly one 
of suggesting greater caution and more reserve on his 
part. 

“I don’t say,” whispered he, — “I don’t say that you 
were n’t right, and he wrong in everything. I know noth- 
ing about false quantities in Latin, or German metaphysics, 
or early Christian art. You may be an authority in all of 
them. All I say is, he is a great Government official, and 
you are a village doctor.” 

“That was exactly why I could n’t let slip the oppor- 
tunity,” broke in Layton. “Let me tell you an incident I 
once witnessed in my old days of coach travelling. I was 
going up from Liverpool to London in the ‘Umpire,* that 
wonderful fast coach that astonished the world by making 
the journey in thirty-six hours. I sat behind the coach- 
man, and was struck by' the appearance of the man on the 
box-seat, who, though it was the depth of winter, and the 
day one of cutting sleet and cold wind, wore no upper coat, 
or an}" protection against the weather. He was, as you may 


84 


ONE OE THEM. 


imagine, speedily wet through, and presented in his drip- 
ping and soaked habiliments as soriy a spectacle as need 
be. In fact, if any man’s external could proclaim want 
and privation, his did. The signs of poverty, however, 
could not screen him from the application of ‘ Won’t you 
remember the coachman, sir?’ He, with no small diffi- 
culty, — for he was nearly benumbed with cold, — extri- 
cated a sixpence from his pocket and tendered it. The 
burly driver flung it contemptuously back to him with in- 
sult, and sneeringly asked him how he could dare to seat 
himself on the box when he was travelling like a pauper? 
The traveller never answered a word ; a slight flush, once, 
indeed, showed how the insult stung him, but he never 
uttered a syllable. 

“ ‘ If I had you down here for five minutes, I ’d teach you 
as how you ’d set yourself on the box-seat again ! ’ cried 
coachee, whose passion seemed only aggravated by the 
other’s submission. Scarcely were the words spoken, when 
the dripping traveller began to descend from the coach. He 
was soon on the ground, and almost as he touched it the 
coachman rushed upon him. It was a hand-to-hand con- 
flict, which, however, could not have lasted four minutes. 
The stranger not only ‘ stopped ’ every blow of the other, 
but followed each ‘ stop ’ by a well-sent-in one of his own, 
dealt with a force that, judging from his size, seemed 
miraculous. With closed eyes, a smashed jaw, and a dis- 
abled ‘ wrist, the coachman was carried away ; while the 
other, as he drank off a glass of cold water, simply said, 
‘ If that man wishes to know where to find me again, tell 
him to ask for Tom Spring, Crane Alley, Borough Road ! ’ ” 

Karstairs followed the anecdote with interest, but, some- 
how — for he was not a very brilliant man, though “an 
excellent officer” — missed the application. “Capital — 
excellent — by Jove! ” cried he. “I ’d have given a crown 
to have seen it.” 

Layton turned away in half ill-humor. 

“And so it was Tom Spring himself? ” said the Colonel. 
“Who’d have guessed it?” 

Layton made no reply, but began to set the chessmen upon 
the board at random. 


A DINNER AT THE RECTORY. 


85 


“Is this aDother amongst your manifold accomplishments, 
sir? ” asked Ogden, as he came up to the table. 

“I play most games,” said Layton, carelessly; “but it’s 
only at billiards that I pretend to any skill.” 

“I’m a very unworthy antagonist,” said Ogden; “but 
perhaps you will condescend to a game with me, — at chess, 
I mean? ” 

“With pleasure,” said Layton, setting the pieces at once. 
He won the first move, and just as he was about to begin he 
stopped, and said, “I wish I knew your strength.” 

“The players give me a knight, and generally beat me,” 
said Ogden. 

“Oh! I understand. Will you allow me to fetch a 
cheroot? I move king’s knight’s pawn one square.” 
He arose as he spoke, and walked into the adjoining 
room. 

Ogden moved his queen’s pawn. 

Layton, from the adjoining room, asked the move, and 
then said, “King’s bishop to knight’s first square;” mean- 
while continuing to search for a cigar to his liking. 

“Do you purpose to continue the game without seeing the 
board ? ” asked Ogden, as he bit his lip with impatience. 

“Not if you prefer otherwise,” said Layton, who now 
came back to his place, with his cigar full}^ lighted. 

“You see what an inexorable enemy I have, Millar,” said 
Ogden, with an affected laugh; “he will not be satisfied 
unless my defeat be ignominious.” 

“Is it so certain to be a defeat, George? ” said the rector. 
“ Chess was always your great game. I remember how the 
Windsor Club entertained you on the occasion of your vic- 
tory over that Swiss player, Eshwald.” 

“And so you have beaten Eshwald,” broke in Layton, has- 
tily. “We must give no quarter here.” And with this he 
threw away his cigar, and bent down over the board. 

“We shall only disturb them, Karstairs; come along into 
the drawing-room, and let us talk parish business,” said the 
rector. “ Our little dinner has scarcely gone off so well as 
I had expected,” said Millar, when they were alone. “I 
meant to do our doctor a service, by asking him to meet 
Odgen, who has patronage and influence in every quarter; 


86 


ONE OF THEM. 


but I suspect that this evening will be remembered griev- 
ously against him.” 

“I confess I was highly amused at it all, and not sorry 
to see your friend Ogden so sorely baited. You know well 
what a life he has led us here for the last week.” 

“A hard hitter sometimes, to be sure,” said the rector, 
smiling^ “but a w^ell-meaning man, and always ready for a 
kind action. I wish Layton had used more moderation, — 
more deference towards him.” 

“Your Madeira did it all, Millar. Why did you give the 
fellow such insinuating tipple as that old ’31 wine?” 

“I can’t say that I was not forewarned,” continued Millar. 
“ I was told, on his coming down to our neighborhood, to 
be careful of him. ' It was even intimated to me that his 
ungovernable and overbearing temper had wrecked his whole 
fortune in life; for, of course, one can easily see such a 
man ought not to be sentenced to the charge of a village 
dispensary.” 

“No matter how clever you are, there must be discipline; 
that ’s what I ’ve always told the youngsters in my 
regiment.” 

The rector sighed ; it was one of those hopeless little sighs 
a man involuntarily heaves when he finds that his companion 
in a tete-a-tUe is always “half an hour behind the coach.” 

“I intended, besides,” resumed Millar, “that Ogden 
should have recommended to the Government the establish- 
ment of a small hospital down here ; an additional fifty or 
sixty pounds a year would have been a great help to 
Layton. ” 

“And of course he ’ll do it, when you ask him,” said the 
hearty Colonel. “Now that he has seen the man, and had 
the measure of his capacity, he ’ll be all the readier to serve 
him.” 

“The cleverest of all my school and college companions 
sacrificed his w^hole career in life by shooting the pheasant 
a great minister had just ‘ marked.’ He was about to be 
invited to spend a week at Drayton ; but the invitation never 
came.” 

“I protest, Millar, I don’t understand that sort of thing.” 

“Have you never felt, when walking very fast, and eagerly 


A DINNER AT THE RECTORY. 


87 


intent upon some object, that if an urchin crossed your 
path, or came rudely against you, it was hard to resist the 
temptation of giving him a box on the ear? I dou*t mean 
to say that the cases are parallel, but great people do, some- 
how, acquire a habit of thinking that the road ought always 
to be cleared for them^ and they will not endure whatever 
interferes with their wishes.’’ 

“But don’t you think if you gave Layton a hint — ” 

“Is n’t that like it? Hear that — ” 

A loud burst of laughter from the adjoining room cut 
short the colloquy, and Layton’s voice was heard in a tone 
of triumph, saying, “I saw your plan — I even let you follow 
it up to the last, for I knew you were checkmated.” 

“I ’m off my play; I have not touched a chessman these 
three years,” said Ogden, pettishly. 

“Nor I for three times three years; nor was it ever my 
favorite game.” 

“I’m coming to crave a cup of tea from you, Millar,” 
said Ogden, entering the drawing-room, flushed in the 
cheek, and with a flurried manner. 

“Who won the game?” asked the Colonel, eagerly. 

“Dr. Layton was the conqueror; but I don’t regard my- 
self as an ignoble foe, notwithstanding,” said Ogden, with 
a sort of look of appeal towards the doctor. 

“I ’ll give you a bishop and play you for — ” He stopped 
in some confusion, and then, with an effort at a laugh, 
added, “I was going to say fifty pounds, quite forgetting 
that it was possible you might beat me.” 

“ And yet, sir, I have the presumption to think that there 
are things which I could do fully as well as Dr. Layton.” 

Layton turned hastily round from the table, where, having 
half filled a large glass with brandy, he was about to fill up 
with soda-water; he set down the unopened soda-water 
bottle, and, drinking off the raw spirit at a draught, said, — 

“What are they ? Let ’s hear them, for I take the challenge ; 
these gentlemen be my witnesses that I accepted the gage 
before I knew your weapon.” Here he replenished his glass, 
and this time still higher than before, and drank it off. 
“You have, doubtless, your speciality, your pet subject, art 
or science, what is it? Or have you more than one? 


88 


ONE OF THEM. 


You ’re not like the fellow that Scott tells us could only 
talk of tanned leather, — eh, Millar, you remember that 
anecdote ? ” 

The rector started with that sort of spasm that unobtrusive 
men feel when first accosted familiarly by those almost stran- 
gers to them. 

“Better brandy than this I never tasted,” said Layton, 
now filling out a bumper, while his hand shook so much that 
he spilled the liquor over the table; “and, as Tom Warren- 
dar used to say, as he who gives you unpleasant advice is 
bound in honor to lend you money, so he who gives you 
light claret, if he be a man of honor, will console you with 
old brandy afterwards; and you are a man of honor, Millar, 
and a man of conscience, and so is our colonel here, — albeit 
nothing remarkable in other respects; and as for that public 
servant, as he likes to call himself, — the public servant, if 
I must be candid, — the public servant is neither more nor 
less than — ” Here he stretched out his arm to its full 
length, to give by the gesture greater emphasis to what he 
was about to utter, and then staring half wildly, half inso- 
lently around him, he sank down heavily into a deep arm- 
chair, and as his arms dropped listlessly beside him, fell 
back insensible. 

“I will say that I never felt deeper obligation to a brandy- 
bottle; it is the first enjoyable moment of the whole even- 
ing,” said Ogden, as he sat down to the tea-table. 

In somewhat less than half an hour afterwards, Layton 
awoke with a sort of start, and looked wildly and con- 
fusedly around him. What or how much he remembered of 
the events of the evening, is not possible to say, as, with a 
sudden spring to his feet, he took his hat, and with a short 
“good-night,” left the house, and hurried down the avenue. 


CHAPTER X. 


THE LABORATORY. 

There was a small closet-like room in Layton’s cottage 
which he had fitted up, as well as his very narrow means- 
permitted, as a laboratory. Everything in it was, of 
course, of the very humblest kind; soda-water flasks were 
fashioned into retorts, and even blacking-jars held strange 
chemical mixtures. Here, however, he spent most of his 
time in the search of some ingredient by which he hoped to 
arrest the progress of all spasmodic disease. An accidental 
benefit he had himself derived from a certain salt of ammo- 
nia had suggested the inquiry, and for years back this had 
constituted the main object of all his thoughts. Deter- 
mined, if his discovery were to prove a success, it should 
burst upon the world in all its completeness, he had never 
revealed to any one but his sou the object of his studies. 
Alfred, indeed, was made participator of his hopes and 
ambitions; he had seen all the steps of the inquiry, and 
understood thoroughly the train of reasoning on which the 
theory was based. The young man’s patience in investiga- 
tion and his powers of calculation were of immense value to 
his father, and Layton deeply regretted the absence of the 
one sole assistant he could or would confide in. A certain 
impatience, partly constitutional, partly from habits of 
intemperance, had indisposed the old man to those laborious 
calculations by which chemical discovery is so frequently 
accompanied, and these he threw upon his son, who never 
deemed any labor too great, or any investigation too weari- 
some, if it should save his father some part of his daily 
fatigue. It was not for months after Alfred’s departure that 
Layton could re-enter his study, and resume his old pursuits. 
The want of the companionship that cheered him, and the 


90 


ONE OF THEM. 


able help that seconded all his efforts, had so damped his 
ardor, that he had, if not abandoned his pursuit, at least 
deferred its prosecution indefinitely. At last, however, by 
a vigorous effort, he resumed his old labor, and in the inter- 
est of his search he soon regained much of his former ambi- 
tion for success. 

The investigations of chemistry have about them all the 
fluctuating fortunes of a deep and subtle game. There are 
the same vacillations of good and bad luck ; the same tides 
of hope and fear ; the almost certain prospect of success 
dashed and darkened by failure ; the grief and disappoint- 
ment of failure dispelled by glimpses of bright hope. So 
many are the disturbing influences, so subtle the causes 
which derange experiment, where some infinitesimal excess 
or deficiency, some minute accession of heat or cold, some 
chance adulteration in this or that ingredient, can vitiate a 
whole course of inquiry, requiring the labor of weeks to be 
all begun again, that the pursuit at length assumes many of 
the features of a game, and a game only to be won by secur- 
ing every imaginable condition of success. 

Perhaps this very character was what imparted to Layton’s 
mind one of the most stimulating of all interests ; at all 
events, he addressed himself to his task like one who, baffled 
and repulsed as he might be, would still not acknowledge 
defeat. As well from the indefatigable ardor he showed, as 
from the occasional bursts of boastful triumph in anticipation 
of a great success in store, his poor ailing wife had grown to 
fancy that his pursuit was something akin to those wonder- 
ful researches after the elixir vitae, or the philosopher’s 
stone. She knew as little of his real object as of the means 
he employed to attain it, but she could see the feverish 
eagerness that daily gained on him, mark his long hours of 
intense thought, his days of labor, his nights of wakefulness, 
and her fears were that these studies were undermining his 
strength and breaking up his vigor. 

It was, then, with a grateful joy at her heart she saw him 
invited to the Rectory, — admitted once more to the world 
of his equals, and the notice of society. She had waited 
hour by hour for his return home, and it was already day- 
break ere she heard him enter the cottage, and repair to his 


THE LABORATORY. 


91 


own room. Who knows what deep and heartfelt anxieties 
were hers as she sought her bed at last? What sorrowful 
forebodings might not have oppressed her? What bitter 
tears have coursed along her worn cheeks? for his step was 
short and impatient as he crossed the little hall, and the 
heavy slam of his door, and the harsh grating of the lock, 
told that he was ruffled and angry. 

The morning wore on heavily, — drearily to her, as she 



watched and waited, and at last she crept noiselessly to the 
door, and tapped at it gently. 

“ Who ’s there? Come in ! ” cried he, roughly. 

“ I came only to ask if you would not have your breakfast,” 
said she, timidly. “ It is already near eleven o’clock.” 

“ So late, Grace?” said he, with a more kindly accent, as 
he offered her a seat. “I don’t well know how the time 
slipped over; not that I was engaged in anything that in- 
terested me, — I do not believe I have done anything what- 
ever, — no, nothing,” muttered he, vaguely, as his wearied 
eye ranged over the table. 




92 


ONE OF THEM. 


“You are tired to-day, Herbert, and you need rest,” said 
she, in a soft, gentle tone. “ Let this be a holiday.” 

“ Mine are all holidays now,” replied he, with an effort at 
gayety. Then suddenly, with an altered voice, he added : 
“I ought never to have gone there last night, Grace. I 
knew well what would come of it. I have no habits, no 
temper, no taste, for such associates. What other thoughts 
could cross me as I sat there, sipping their claret, than of 
the cold poverty that awaited me at home ? What pleasure to 
me could that short hour of festivity be, when 1 knew and 
felt I must come back to this ? And then, the misery, the 
insult of that state of watchfulness, to see that none took 
liberties with me on the score of my humble station.” 

“ But surely, Herbert, there is not any one — ” 

“ I don’t know that,” broke he in. “ He who wears finer 
linen than you is often a terrible tyrant, on no higher or 
better ground. If any man has been taught that lesson, 1 
have ! The world has one easy formula for its guidance. 
If you be poor, you must be either incompetent or improvi- 
dent, or both; your patched coat and shabby hat are 
vouchers for one or the other, and sleek success does not 
trouble itself to ask which.” 

“ The name of Herbert Layton is a sure guarantee against 
such depreciation,” said she, in a voice tremulous with pride 
and emotion. 

“So it might, if it had not earned a little extra notoriety 
in police courts,” said he, with a laugh of intense bitterness. 

“ Tell me of your dinner last night,” said she, eager to 
withdraw him from the vein she ever dreaded most. “Was 
your party a pleasant one ? ” 

“ Pleasant ! — no, the very reverse of pleasant ! We had 
discussion instead of conversation, and in lieu of those slight 
differences of sentiment which flavor talk, we had stubborn 
contradictions. All my fault, too, Grace. I was in one of 
my unhappy humors, and actually forgot I was a dispensary 
doctor and in the presence of an ex-Treasury Lord, with 
great influence. and high acquaintances. You can fancy, 
Grace, how boldly I dissented from all he said.” 

“ But if you were in the right, Herbert — ” 

“ Which is exactly what I was not; at least, I was quite 


THE LABORATORY. 


93 


as often in the wrong. My amusement was derived from see- 
ing how powerless he was to expose the fallacies that out- 
raged him. He was stunned by a fire of blank cartridge, and 
obliged to retreat before it. But now that it ’s all over, I may 
find the amusement a costly one. And then, I drank too 
much wine — She gave a heavy sigh, and turned away to 
hide her look. “Yes,” resumed he, with a fierce bitterness 
in his tone, “the momentary flush of self-esteem — Dutch 
courage, though it be — is a marvellous temptation to a poor, 
beaten-down, crushed spirit, and wine alone can give it ; and 
so I drank, and drank on.” 

“ But not to excess,” said she, in a half-broken whisper. 

“ At least to unconsciousness. I know nothing of how or 
when I quitted the Rectory, nor how I came down the cliffs 
and reached this in safety. The path is dangerous enough at 
noonday with a steady head and a cautious foot, and yet last 
night assuredly I could not boast of either.” 

Another and a deeper sigh escaped her, despite her efforts 
to stifle it. 

~“Ay, Grace, the doctor was right when he said to me, 
‘ Don’t go there.’ How well if I had but taken his advice ! 
I am no longer fit for such associates. They live lives of 
easy security, — they have not the cares and struggles of a 
daily conflict for existence ; we meet, therefore, on unequal 
grounds. Their sentiments cost them no more care than the 
French roll upon their breakfast-table. They can afford to 
be wrong as they can afford debt, but the poor wretch like 
myself, a bare degree above starvation, has as little credit 
with fine folk as with the huckster. I ought never to have 
gone there! Leave me now,” added he, half sternly; “let 
me see if these gases and essences will not make me for- 
get humanity. No, I do not care for breakfast, — I cannot 
eat ! ” 

With the same noiseless step she had entered, she now 
glided softly from the room, closing the door so gently 
that it was only when he looked round that he was aware 
of being alone. For a moment or two he busied himself 
with the objects on the table; he arranged phials and 
retorts, he lighted his stove, he stood fanning the char- 
coal till the red mass glowed brightly, and then, as though 


94 


ONE OF THEM. 


forgetting the pursuit he was engaged in, he sat down 
upon a chair, and sank into a dreamy revery. 

Another low tap at the door aroused him from his musings, 
and the low voice he knew so well gently told him it was his 
morning to attend the dispensary, a distance fully three miles 
off. More than one complaint had been already made of his 
irregularity and neglect, and, intending to pay more attention 
in future, he had charged his wife to keep him mindful of his 
duties. 

“You will scarcely reach Ballintray before one o’clock, 
Herbert,” said she, in her habitually timid tone. 

“ What if I should not try? What if I throw up the beg- 
garly office at once? What if I burst through this slavery of 
patrons and chairmen and boards ? Do you fancy we should 
starve, Grace ? ” 

“ Oh, no, Herbert,” cried she, eagerly; “ I have no fears 
for our future.” 

“ Then your courage is greater than mine,” said he, 
bitterly, and with one of the sudden changes of humor 
which often marked him. “ Can’t you anticipate how the 
world would pass sentence on me, the idle debauchee, 
who would not earn his livelihood, but must needs forfeit 
his subsistence from sheer indolence? — ay, and the world 
would be right too. He who breaks stones upon the high- 
road will not perform his task the better because he can 
tell the chemical constituent of every fragment beneath 
his hammer. Men want common work from common work- 
men, and there are always enough to be found. I ’ll set 
out at once.” 

With this resolve, uttered in a tone she never gainsaid or 
replied to, he took his hat and left the cottage. 

There is no more aggressive spirit than that of the man 
who, with the full consciousness of great powers, sees him- 
self destined to fill some humble and insignificant station, 
well knowing the while the inferiority of those who have 
conquered the high places in life. Of all the disqualifying 
elements of his own character, his unsteadiness, his want 
of thrift, perseverance, or conduct, his deficiency in tact or 
due courtesy, his stubborn indifference to others, — of all 
these he will take no account as he whispers to his heart, 


THE LABORATORY. 


95 


“I passed that fellow at school! — I beat this one at 
college ! — how often have I helped yonder celebrity with 
his theme I — how many times have I written his exercise 
for that great dignitary ! ” Oh, what a deep well of bitter- 
ness lies in the nature of one so tried and tortured, and 
how cruel is the war that he at last wages with the world, 
and, w'orse again, with his own heart! 

Scarcely noticing the salutations of the country people, 
as they touched their hats to him on the road, or the more 
familiar addresses of the better-to-do farmers as they passed, 
Layton strode onwards to the little village where his dispen- 
sary stood. 

“ Yer unco late, docther, this morning,’’ said one, in that 
rebukeful tone the northern Irishman never scruples to 
employ when he thinks he has just cause of complaint. 

“It’s na the way to heal folk to keep them waitin’ twa 
hours at a closed door,” said another. 

“ I ’se warrant he’s gleb eneuch to call for his siller when 
it ’s due to him,” said a third. 

“My gran’mither is just gane hame; she would na bide 
any longer for yer cornin’,” said a pert-looking girl, with a 
saucy toss of her head. 

“It’s na honest to take people’s money and gie naething 
for it,” said an old white-haired man on crutches ; “ and I’ll 
just bring it before the board.” 

Layton turned an angry look over the crowd, but never 
uttered a word. Pride alone would have prevented him 
from answering them, had he not the deeper motive that 
in his conflict with himself he took little heed of what they 
said. 

“Where’s the key, Sandy?” cried he, impatiently, to an 
old cripple who assisted him in the common work of the 
dispensary. 

The man came close and whispered something secretly in 
his ear. 

“ And carried the key away, do you say ? ” asked Layton, 
eagerly. 

“ Just so, sir. There was anither wi’ him, — a stranger, — 
and he was mair angry than his rev’rance, and said, ‘ What 
can ye expec’? Is it like that a man o’ his habits could be 
entrusted with such a charire as this?” 


96 


ONE OF THEM. 


And Dr. Millar — what did he reply? ” 

“Na much; he just shook his head this way, and mut- 
tered, ‘ I hoped for better, — I hoped for better ! ’ I dinna 
think they ’d have taken away the key, but that old Jonas 
Graham kem up at the time, and said, ‘ It ’s mair than a 
month since we seen him ’ — yourself he meant — ‘ down 
here, and them as has the strength for it would rather gae 
all the gait to Coleraine than tak their chance o’ him.’ For 
u.’ that,” said Sandy, “ I opened the dispensary door, and 
was sarvin’ out salts and the like, when the stranger said, 

‘ Is it to a cretur like that the people are to trust their 
health? Just turn the key in the door, Millar, and you’ll 
certainly save some one from being poisoned this morning.’ 
And so he did, and here we are.” And poor Sandy turned 
a rueful look on the surrounders as he finished. 

“I can’t cure you as kings used to cure the evil, long 
ago, by royal touch, good people,” said Layton, mockingly ; 
“ and your guardians, or governors, or whatever they call 
themselves, have shut me out of my own premises. I am a 
priest cut off from his temple.” 

“ I ’m na come here to ask for charity,” said a stout old 
fellow, who stood alongside of a shaggy mountain pony ; 
“I’m able to pay ye for a’ your docther’s stuff, and your 
skill besides.” 

“Well spoken, and like a man of independence,” said 
Layton. “Let us open the treaty with a gill of brandy, and 
you shall tell me your case while I am sipping it.” And 
with these words he led the way into a public-house, followed 
by the farmer, leaving the crowd to disperse when and how 
they pleased. 

Whatever the nature of those ailments now so confiden- 
tially imparted, they were long enough in narration not only 
to require one, or two, or three gills, but a full bottle of 
strong mountain whiskey, of which it is but fair to say the 
farmer took his share. Layton’s powers as a talker were 
not long in exercise ere they gained their due influence over 
his companion. Of the very themes the countryman deemed 
his own, he found the doctor knew far more than himself ; 
while by his knowledge of life and human nature generally, 
he surprised his listener, who actually could not tear himself 
away from one so full of anecdote and observation. 


THE LABOEATOEY. 


97 


Partly warned by the lateness of the hour — for already 
the market was over and the streets deserted — and partly 
by the thick utterance of his companion, whose heavy, 
bloodshot eye and sullen look now evidenced how deeply he 
had exceeded, the farmer at last arose to go away. 

“ You ’re not ‘ flitting,’ as you call it hereabouts,” said 
Layton, half stupidly, “you’re not thinking of leaving me 
alone to my own company, are you? ” 

“ I maun be thinkin’ of home ; it ’s more than twalve miles 
o’ a mountain that ’s afore me. There ’s na anither but 
yoursel’ had made me forget it a’ this while,” said the 
farmer, as he buttoned his coat and prepared for the road. 
“Just tell me now what’s to pay for the bit o’ writin’ ye 
gav’ me.” 

“ You ’ve had a consultation, my friend, — not a visit, but 
a regular consultation. You’ve not been treated like the 
outer populace, and only heard the oracles from afar, but 
you have been suffered to sit down beside the augur, to ques- 
tion him, and to drink with him. Pay, — nothing to pay ! 
I ’ll cure your boy, there ’s my word on ’t. These cases are 
specialities with me. Bell used to say, ‘ Ask Layton to look 
at that fellow in such a ward ; he ’s the only one of us under- 
stands this sort of thing. Layton will tell us all about it.’ 
And I ’m Layton ! Ay, sir, this poor, shabby, ill-dressed 
fellow that you see before you is that same Herbert Layton ; 
so much for brains and ability to work a man’s way in life I 
Order another quart of Isla whiskey, man, — that ’s my fee ; 
at least it shall be to-day. Tell them to send me pen, ink, 
and paper, and not disturb me; tell them, besides — no, 
nevermind, /’ll tell them that! And now, good-day, my 
honest fellow. You ’ve been my physician to-day as much 
as I have been yours. You have cured a sick heart — 
cheated it, at least — out of one paroxysm, and so, a good 
journey, and safe home to you. Send me news of your boy, 
and good-bye.” And his head dropped as he spoke; his 
arms fell heavily at his sides; and he appeared to have 
sunk into a profound sleep. The stupor was but brief ; the 
farmer was not well out of the village when Layton, calling 
for a basin of cold water, plunged his face and part of his 
head in it, baring his brawny throat, and bathing it with the 

7 


98 


ONE OF THEM. 


refreshing liquid. As he was thus employed, he caught 
sight of his face reflected in a much-cracked mirror over the 
fireplace, and stood gazing for a few seconds at his blotched 
and bloated countenance. 

“A year or two left still, belike,” muttered he. “Past 
insuring, but still seaworthy, or, at least ” — and here his 
voice assumed an intense mockery in tone, — “at least, 
capable of more shipwreck ! ” The sight of the writing- 
materials on the table seemed to recall him to something he 
had half forgotten, and, after a pause of reflection, he 
arranged the paper before him and sat down to write. 

With the ease of one to whom composition was familiar, 
he dashed off a somewhat long letter ; but though he wrote 
with great rapidity, he recurred from time to time to the 
whiskey-bottle, drinking the strong spirits undiluted, arid, to 
all seeming, unmoved by its potency. “ There,” cried he, 
as he finished, “ I have scuttled my own ship ; let’s see what 
will come of it.” 

He called for the landlord to give him wax and a seal. 
Neither were to be had, and he was fain to put up with a 
wafer. The letter closed and addressed, he set out home- 
wards ; scarcely, however, beyond the outskirts of the 
village, than he turned away from the coast and took the 
road towards the Rectory. It was now the early evening, one 
of those brief seasons when the wind lulls and a sort of brief 
calm supervenes in the boisterous climate of northern Ire- 
land. Along the narrow lane he trod, tall foxgloves and 
variegated ferns grew luxuriantly, imparting a half-shade to 
a scene usually desolate and bare ; and Layton lingered 
along it as though its calm seclusion soothed him. At last 
he found himself at a low wall, over which a stile led to a 
little woodland path. It was the Rectory ; who could mis- 
take its trim neatness, the order and elegance which pervaded 
all its arrangements ? Taking this path, he walked leisurely 
onward, till he came to a small flower-garden, into which 
three windows opened, their sashes reaching to the ground. 
While yet uncertain whether to advance or retire, he heard 
Ogden’s sharp voice from within the room. His tone was 
loud, and had the vibration of one speaking in anger. 
“Even on your own showing, Millar, another reason for 


THE LABORATORY. 


99 


getting rid of him. Yoxi can’t be ambitious, I take it, of 
newspaper notoriety, or a controversy in the public papers. 
Now, Layton is the very man to drag you into such a conflict. 
Ask for no explanations, inquire for no reasons, but dismiss 
him by an act of your board. Your colonel there is the 
chairman ; he could n’t refuse what you insist upon, and the 
thing will be done without your prominence in it.” 

Millar murmured a reply, but Layton turned away without 
listening to it, and made for the hall door. ‘ ‘ Give this to 
your master,” said he, handing the letter to the servant, and 
turned away. 

The last flickerings of twilight guided him down the steep 
path of the cliff, and, wearied and tired, he reached home. 

“What a wearisome day you must have had, Herbert! ” 
said his wife, as she stooped for the hat and cane he had 
thrown beside him on sitting down. 

“ I mustn’t complain, Grace,” said he, with a sad sort of 
smile. “It is the last of such fatigues.” 

“ How, or what do you mean? ” asked she, eagerly. 

“ I have given it up. I have resigned my charge of the 
dispensary. Don’t ask any reasons, girl,” broke he in, 
hastily, “ for I scarcely know them myself. All I can tell 
you is, it is done.” 

“ I have no doubt you were right, Herbert,” began she. 
“I feel assured — ” 

“Do you? Then, by Heaven! you have a greater confi- 
dence in me than I have in myself. I believe I was more 
than two parts drunk when I did it, but doubtless the 
thought will sober me when I awake to-morrow morning; 
till when, I do not mean to think of it.” 

“You have not eaten, I’m sure.” 

“ I cannot eat just yet, Grace ; give me a cup of tea, and 
leave me. I shall be better alone for a while.” 


CHAPTER XT. 


A REMITTANCE. 

LETTER, — a long letter from Alfred,” said Layton’s 
wife, as she knocked at his door on the following morning. 
“ It has been lying for four days at the office in Coleraine. 
Only think, Herbert, and I fretting and fretting over his 
silence.” 

“Is he well? ” asked he, half gruffly. 

“ Quite well, and so happy ; in the midst of kind friends, 
and enjoying himself, as he says he thought impossible when 
absent from his home. Pray read it, Herbert. It will do 
you infinite good to see how cheerfully he writes.” 

“ No, no; it is enough that I know the boy is well. As 
to being happy, it is the affair of an hour, or a day, with the 
luckiest of us.” 

“ There are so many kind messages to you, and so many 
anxious inquiries about the laboratory. But you must read 
them. And then there is a bank order he insists upon your 
having. Poor fellow ! the first money he has ever earned — ” 

“ How much is it, Grace?” asked he, eagerly. 

“It is for twenty pounds, Herbert,” said she, in a falter- 
ing accent, which, even weak as it was, vibrated with some- 
thing like reproach. 

“ Never could it be more welcome,” said he, carelessly. 
“It was thoughtful, too, of the boy; just as if he had 
known all that has happened here.” And with this he 
opened the door, taking hurriedly from her hand the letter 
and the money-order. “ No; not this. I do not want his 
letter,” said he, handing it back to her, while he muttered 
over the lines of the bank check. “Why did he not say, — 
or order?” said he, half angrily. “This necessitates my 
going to Coleraine myself to receive it. It seems that I was 
overrating his thoughtfulness, after all.” 


A REMITTANCE. 


101 


“Oh, Herbert!” said she, pressing both her hands over 
her heart, as though an acute pain shot through it. 

“ I meant what I have said,” said he, roughly ; “he might 
have bethought him what are twelve weary miles of road to 
one like me, as well as that my clothes are not such as suit 
appearance in the streets of a town. It was not thoughtful 
of him, Grace.” 

“ The poor dear boy’s first few pounds ; all that he could 
call his own — ” 

“ I know that,” broke he in, harshly ; “ and in what other 
way could they have afforded him a tithe of the pleasure ? It 
was a wise selfishness suggested the act ; that is all you can 
say of it."^ 

“ Oh, but let me read you how gracefully and delicately he 
has done it, Herbert ; how mindful he was not to wound one 
sentiment — ” 

“‘Pay to Herbert Layton, Esquire,”’ read he, half 
aloud, and not heeding her speech. “He ought to have 
added ‘ M. D.’ ; it is as ‘ the doctor ’ they should know me 
down here. Well, it has come right opportunely, at all 
events. I believe I was the owner of some fifteen shillings 
in the world.” 

A deep, tremulous sigh was all her answer. 

“ Fifteen and ninepence,” muttered he, as he counted over 
the pieces in his hand. “ Great must be the self-reliance of 
the man who, with such a sum for all his worldly wealth, 
insults his patrons and resigns his office, — eh, Grace ? ” 

There was in his tone a blended mockery and seriousness 
that he often used, and which, by the impossibility of an- 
swering, always distressed her greatly. 

“ It is clear you do not think so,” said he, harshly. “ It 
is evident you take the vulgar view of the incident, and con- 
demn the act as one dictated by ill temper and mere resent- 
ment. The world is always more merciful than one’s own 
fireside, and the world will justify me.” 

“ When you have satisfied your own conscience, Her- 
bert—” 

“I’ll take good care to make no such appeal,” broke he 
in. “Besides,” added he, with a bitter levity, “men like 
myself have not one, but fifty consciences. Their after- 


102 


ONE OE THEM. 


dinner conscience is not their waking one next morning; 
their conscience in the turmoil and bustle of life is not their 
conscience as they lie out there on the white rocks, listening 
to the lazy plash of the waves. Not to say that, after forty, 
every man’s conscience grows casuistical, — somewhat the 
worse for wear, like himself.” 

It was one of Layton’s pastimes to sport thus with the 
feelings of his poor wife, uttering at random sentiments that 
he well knew must pain her deeply ; and there were days 
when this spirit of annoyance overbore his reason and mas- 
tered all his self-control. 

“ What pleasant little sketches Alfred gives of his travel- 
ling acquaintances ! ” said she, opening the letter, and almost 
asking to be invited to read it. 

“These things have no value from one as untried in life 
as he is,” broke he in, rudely. “One only learns to de- 
cipher character by the time the world has become very 
wearisome. Does he tell you how he likes his task? How 
does he fancy bear-leading ? ” 

“He praises Lord Agincourt very much. He calls him a 
fine, generous boy, with many most attaching qualities.” 

“They are nearly all such in that class in very early life, 
but, as Swift says, the world i& full of promising princes 
and bad kings.” 

“Lord Agincourt would appear to be very much attached 
to Alfred.” 

“So much the worse; such friendships interfere with the 
work of tuition, and they never endure after it is over. To 
be sure, now and then a tutor is remembered, and if he has 
shown himself discreet about his pupil’s misdeeds, reserved 
as to his shortcomings, and only moderately rebukeful as to 
his faults, such virtue is often rewarded with a bishopric. 
What have we here, Grace ? Is not that a row-boat round- 
ing the point yonder, and heading into the bay?” 

So rare an event might well have caused astonishment; 
for since the place had been deserted by the fishermen, the 
landlocked waters of the little cove had never seen the track 
of a boat. 

“Who can it be?” continued he; “I see a round hat in 
the stern- sheets. Look, he is pointing where they are to 


A KEMITTANCE. 


103 


land him, quite close to our door here.” Stimulated Dy an 
irrepressible curiosity, Herbert arose and walked out; but 
scarcely had he reached the strand when he was met by 
Colonel Karstairs. 

“I could n’t trust my gouty ankles down that precipice, 
doctor,” cried he out; “and although anything but a good 
sailor, I came round here by water. What a charming spot 
you have here, when one does reach it! ” 

“It is pretty; and it is better, — it is solitary,” said Lay- 
ton, coldly ; '^or somehow he could not avoid connecting the 
Colonel with a scene very painful to his memory. 

“I don’t think I ever saw anything more beautiful,” said 
Karstairs, as he gazed around him. “The wild, fantastic 
outlines of those rocks, the variegated colors of the heath 
blossom, the golden strknd, and the cottage itself, make up 
a fairy scene.” 

“Let me show you the interior, though it dispel the illu- 
sion,” said Layton, as he moved towards the door. 

“I hope my visit is not inconvenient,” said Karstairs, as 
he entered and took a seat; “and I hope, besides, when you 
hear the object of it, you will, at least, forgive me.” He 
waited for a reply of some sort, but Layton only bowed his 
head stiffly, and suffered him to continue: “I am a sorry 
diplomatist, doctor, and have not the vaguest idea of how 
to approach a point of any difflculty ; but what brought me 
here this morning was simply this : you sent that letter ” — 
here he drew one from his pocket, and handed it to Layton 
— “to our friend the rector.” 

“Yes; it is my hand, and I left it myself at the parson- 
age.” 

“Well, now, Millar has shown it to no one but myself, — 
indeed, he placed it in my hands after reading it; conse- 
quently, its contents are unknown save to our two selves ; 
there can, therefore, be no difflculty in your withdrawing it. 
You must see that the terms you have employed towards him 
are not such as — are not civil, I mean ; in fact, they are not 
fair. He is an excellent fellow, and sincerely your friend, 
besides. Now, don’t let a bit of temper get the mastery 
over better feeling, nor do not, out of a momentary pique, 
throw up your appointment. None of us, nowadays, can 


104 


ONE OF THEM. 


afford to quarrel with his bread-and-butter; and though you 
are certainly clever enough and skilful enough not to regard 
such an humble place as this, yet, remember, you had a 
score of competitors when you looked for it. Not to say 
that we all only desire to know how to be of service to you, 
to make your residence amongst us agreeable, and — and 
all that sort of thing, which you can understand far better 
than I can say it! ” Nor, to do the worthy Colonel justice, 
was this a very difficult matter, seeing that, in his extreme 
confusion and embarrassment, he stammered and stuttered 
at every word, while, to increase his difficulty, the manner 
of Layton was cold and almost stately. 

“Am I to suppose, sir,” said he, at length, “that you are 
here on the part of Dr. Millar ? ” 

“No, no; nothing of the kind. Millar knows, of course, 
the step I have taken; perhaps he concurs in it; indeed, 
I ’m sure he does. He is your sincere well-wisher, doctor, 
— a man who really wants to be your friend.” 

“Too much honor,” said Layton, haughtily. “Not to say 
how arduous the task of him who would protect a man 
against himself ; and such I opine to be the assumed object 
here.” 

“I’m sure, if I had as much as suspected how you would 
have taken my interference,” said the Colonel, more hurt 
by Layton’s tone than by his mere words, “I’d have spared 
myself my mission.” 

“You had no right to have anticipated it, sir. It was 
very natural for you to augur favorably of any intervention 
by a colonel, — a C.B., with other glorious distinctions — 
in regard to a poor dispensary doctor, plodding the world 
wearily, with a salary less than a butler’s. You had only 
to look down the cliff, and see the humble cottage where he 
lived, to calculate what amount of resistance could such a 
man offer to any proposal that promised him bread.” 

“I must say, I wish you would not mistake me,” broke in 
Karstairs, with warmth. 

“I am not stating anything with reference to you^ sir; 
only with respect to those judgments the world at large 
would pronounce upon me.” 

“Am I to conclude, then,” said the Colonel, rising, and 


A REMITTANCE. 


105 


evidently in anger, — “am I to conclude, then, that this is 
your deliberate act, that you wish to abide by this letter, 
that you see nothing to recall nor retract in its contents? ’’ 

Layton bowed an assent. 

“This is too bad — too bad,” muttered the Colonel, as he 
fumbled for his gloves, and dropped them twice over in his 
confusion. “I know well enough where the sting lies: you 
are angry with^ Ogden ; you suspect that he has been med- 
dling. Well, it ’s no affair of mine; you are the best judge. 
Not but a little prudence might have shown you that Ogden 
was a dangerous man to offend, — a very dangerous man ; 
but of course you know best. I have only to ask pardon for 
obtruding my advice unasked, a stupid act always, but I ’m 
right sorry for it.” 

“I am very grateful for the intention, sir,” said Layton, 
with dignity. 

“That ’s all I can claim,” muttered the Colonel, whose 
confusion increased every moment. “It was a fool’s errand, 
and ends as it ought. Good-bye ! ” 

Layton arose and opened the door with a respectful 
air. 

Karstairs offered his hand, and, as he grasped the other’s 
warmly, said, “I wish you would let me talk this over with 
your wife, Layton.” 

The doctor drew haughtily back, and, with a cold stare of 
astonishment, said: “I have addressed you by your title, 
sir; /have mine. At all events, there is nothing in your 
station nor in my own to warrant this familiarity.” 

“You are quite right, — perfectly right, — and I ask 
pardon.” 

It was a liberty never to be repeated, and the bronzed 
weatherbeaten face of the old soldier became crimson with 
shame as he bowed deeply and passed out. 

Layton walked punctiliously at his side till he reached the 
boat, neither uttering a word ; and thus they parted. Lay- 
ton stood for a moment gazing after the boat. Perhaps he 
thought that Karstairs would turn his head again towards 
the shore ; perhaps — who knows ? — he hoped it. At all 
events, the old Colonel never once looked back, and the boat 
soon rounded the point and was lost to view. 


106 


ONE OF THEM. 


There are men so combative in their natures that their 
highest enjoyment is derived from conflict with the world, 
— men whose self-esteem is never developed till they see 
themselves attacking or attacked. Layton was one of this 
unhappy number, and it was with a sort of bastard heroism 
that he strolled back to the cottage, proud in the thought of 
how he stood, alone and friendless, undeterred by the enmity 
of men of a certain influence and station. 

He was soon in his laboratory and at work, the reaction 
imparting a great impulse to his energy. He set to work 
with unwonted vigor and determination. Chemical inves- 
tigation has its good and evil days, — its periods when all 
goes well, experiments succeed, tests answer, and results 
respond to what was looked for; and others when disturbing 
causes intervene, gases escape, and retorts smash. This was 
one of the former ; and the subtle essence long sought after 
by Layton, so eagerly desired, and half despaired of, seemed 
at last almost within reach. A certain salt, an ingredient 
very difficult of preparation, was, however, wanting to his 
further progress, and it was necessary that he should provide 
himself with it ere he advanced any further. To obtain this 
without any adulterating admixture and in all purity was 
essential to success; and he determined to set out imme- 
diately for Dublin, where he could himself assist in its 
preparation. 

“What good luck it was, Grace,” said he, as he entered 
the room where she sat awaiting dinner for him, — “what 
good luck that the boy should have sent us this money! I 
must go up to Dublin to-morrow, and without it I must have 
given up the journey.” 

“To Dublin!” said she, in a half-frightened voice, for 
she dreaded — not without reason — the temptations he 
would be exposed to when accidentally lifted above his 
usual poverty. 

“Ay, girl ; I want a certain ‘ cyanuret ’ of which you have 
never heard, nor can help me to any knowledge of, but 
which a Dublin chemist that I know of will assist me to 
procure ; and with this salt I purpose to make myself a name 
and reputation that even Mr. Ogden will not dare to dispute. 
I shall, I hope, have discovered what will render disease 


A REMITTANCE. 


107 


painless, and deprive operation of all its old terrors. If 
my calculations be just, a new era will dawn upon medical 
science, and the physician come to the sick man as a true 
comforter. My discovery, too, is no empyric accident for 
which I can give no reason, nor assign no cause, but the 
result of patient investigation, based upon true knowledge. 
My appeal will be to the men of science, not to popular 
judgments. I ask no favor ; I seek no patronage. Herbert 
Layton would be little likely to find either; but we shall 
see if the name will not soar above both favor and patron- 
age, and rank with the great discoverers, or, better again, 
with the great benefactors of mankind.” 

Vainglorious and presumptuous as this speech was, — 
uttered, too, in a tone boastful as the words themselves, — 
it was the mood which Layton’s wife loved to see him in- 
dulge. If for nothing else than it was the reverse of the 
sardonic and bitter raillery he often practised, — a spirit of 
scoff in which he inveighed against the world and himself, 
— it possessed for her an indescribable charm. It repre- 
sented her husband, besides, in what she loved to think 
his true character, — that of a noble, enthusiastic man, 
eagerly bent upon benefiting his fellows. To her thinking, 
there was nothing of vanity, — no overweening conceit in 
all these foreshadowings of future fame; nay, if anything, 
he understated the claims he would establish upon the world’s 
gratitude. 

With what eager delight, then, did she listen! how 
enchanting were the rich tones of his voice as he thus 
declaimed ! 

“How it cheers my heart, Herbert, when I hear you speak 
thus! how bright everything looks when you throw such 
sunlight around you ! ” 

“ ‘Is this the debauchee, — is this the fellow we have been 
reading of in the reports from Scotland Yard?’ methinks 
I hear them whispering to each other. Ay, and that haughty 
University, ashamed of its old injustice, will stoop to share 
the lustre of the man it once expelled.” 

“Oh, think of the other and the better part of your 
triumph ! ” cried she, eagerly. 

“The best part of all will be the vengeance on those who 


108 


ONE OF THEM. 


have wronged me. What will these calumniators say when 
it is a nation does homage to my success ? ” 

‘‘There are higher and better rewards than such feelings,’’ 
said she, half reproachfully. 

“How little you know of it! ” said he, in his tone of accus- 
tomed bitterness. “The really high and great rewards of 
England are given to wealth, to political intrigue, to legal 
success. It ’s your banker, your orator, or your scheming 
barrister, who win the great prizes in our State Lottery. 
Find out some secret by which life can be restored to the 
drowned, convert an atmosphere of pestilence into an air of 
health and vigor, discover how an avalanche may be arrested 
in its fall, and, if you be an Englishman, you can do nothing 
better with your knowledge than sell it to a company, and 
make it marketable through shareholders. Philanthropy 
can be quoted on ’Change like a Welsh tin-mine or a patent 
fuel company; and if you could raise the dead, make a 
‘ limited liability ’ scheme of it before you tell the world your 
secret.” 

“Oh, Herbert, it was not thus you were wont to speak.” 

“No, Grace,” said he, in a tone of gentle, sorrowful mean- 
ing; “but there is no such misanthrope as the man who 
despises himself.” And with this he hastened to his room 
and locked the door. It was while carelessly and recklessly 
he scattered the harsh words by which he grieved her most 
that he now and then struck some chord that vibrated with 
a pang of almost anguish within him, uttering aloud some 
speech which from another he would have resented with a 
blow. Still, as the criminal is oftentimes driven to confess 
the guilt whose secret burden is too heavy for his heart, 
preferring even the execration of mankind to the terrible 
isolation of secrecy, so did he feel a sort of melancholy 
satisfaction in discovering how humbly and meanly he 
appeared before himself. 

“A poor man’s pack is soon made, Grace,” said he, with 
a sad smile, as he entered the room, where she was busily 
engaged in the little preparations for his journey. 

“Tom, don’t go! don’t go! don’t!” screamed out the 
parrot, wildly. 

“Only listen to the creature,” said he; “he ’s at his warn- 


A REMITTANCE. 109 

ings again. I wish he would condescend to be more explan- 
atory and less oracular.” 

She only smiled, without replying. 

“Not but he was right once, Grace,” said Layton, gravely. 
“You remember how he counselled me against that visit to 
the Rectory.” 

“Don’t! don’t!” croaked out the bird, in a low, guttural 
voice. 

“You are too dictatorial, doctor, even for a vice-provost. 
I will go.” 

“All wrong! all wrong! ” croaked the parrot. 

“By Jove! he has half shaken my resolution,” said Lay- 
ton, as he sat down and drew his hand across his brow. “I 
wish any one would explain to me why it is that he who 
has all his life resented advice as insult, should be the slave 
of his belief in omens.” This was uttered in a half- 
soliloquy, and he went on: “I can go back to at least a 
dozen events wherein I have had to rue or to rejoice in this 
faith.” 

“I too would say. Don’t go, Herbert,” said she, lan- 
guidly. 

“How foolish all this is!” said he, rising; “don’t you 
know the old Spanish proverb, Grace, ‘ Good luck often 
sends us a message, but very rarely calls at the door her- 
self? ’ meaning that we must not ask Fortune to aid us 
without our contributing some effort of our own. I will go, 
Grace. Yes, I will go. No more auguries, doctor,” said 
he, throwing a handkerchief playfully over the bird and 
then withdrawing it, — a measure that never failed to en- 
force silence. “This time, at least,” said he, “I mean to 
be my own oracle.” 


CHAPTER XII. 


A FELLOW-TRAVELLER ON THE COACH. 

The morning was raw, cold, and ungenial, as Layton took 
his outside seat on the coach for Dublin. For sake of shel- 
ter, being but poorly provided against ill weather, he had 
taken the seat behind the coachman, the place beside him 
being reserved for a traveller who was to be taken up out- 
side the town. The individual in question was alluded to 
more than once by the driver and the guard as “ the Cap- 
tain,” and in the abundance of fresh hay provided for his 
feet, and the care taken to keep his seat dry, there were 
signs of a certain importance being attached to his presence. 
As they gained the foot of a hill, where the road crossed a 
small bridge, they found the stranger awaiting them, with 
his carpet-bag; he had no other luggage, but in his own 
person showed unmistakable evidence of being well prepared 
for a journey. He was an elderly man, short, square, and 
thick-set, with a rosy, cheerful countenance, and a bright, 
merry eye. As he took off his hat, punctiliously returning 
the coachee’s salute, he showed a round, bald head, fringed 
around the base by a curly margin of rich brown hair. So 
much Layton could mark, — all signs, as he read them, of a 
jovial temperament and a healthy constitution ; nor did the 
few words he uttered detract from the impression : they were 
frank and cheerful, and their tone rich and pleasing to the 
ear. 

The stranger’s first care on ascending to his place was to 
share a very comfortable rug with his neighbor, the civility 
being done in a way that would have made refusal almost 
impossible ; his next move was to inquire if Layton was a 
smoker, and, even before the answer, came the offer of a 
most fragrant cigar. The courtesy of the offered snuff-box 


A FELLOW-TRAVELLER ON THE COACH. Ill 


amongst our grandfathers is now replaced by the polite 
proffer of a cigar, and, simple as the act of attention is in 
itself, there are some men who are perfect masters in the 
performance. The Captain was of this category; and al- 
though Layton was a cold, proud, off-standing man, such 
was the other’s tact, that, before they had journeyed twenty 
miles in company, an actual intimacy had sprung up between 
them. 

There is no pleasanter companionship to the studious and 
reading man than that of a man of life and the world, one 
whose experience, drawn entirely from the actual game of 
life, is full of incident and adventure. The Captain had 
travelled a great deal and seen much, and there was about 
all his observations the stamp of a mind that had learned 
to judge men and things by broader, wider rules than are the 
guides of those who live in more narrow spheres. 

It was in discoursing on the political condition of Ireland 
that they reached the little village of Cookstown, about a 
mile from which, on a slight eminence, a neat cottage was 
observable, the trim laurel hedge that separated it from the 
road being remarkable in a country usually deficient in such 
foliage. 

“A pretty spot,” remarked Layton, carelessly, “and, to 
all seeming, untenanted.” 

“Yes, it seems empty,” said the other, in the same 
easy tone. 

“There’s never been any one livin’ there. Captain, since 
that^^* said the coachman, turning round on his seat, and 
addressing the stranger. 

“Since what?” asked Layton, abruptly. 

“He is alluding to an old story, — a very old story, now,” 
rejoined the other. “There were two men — a father and 
son — named Shehan, taken from that cottage in the year 
of Emmet’s unhappy rebellion, under a charge of high 
treason, and hanged.” 

“I remember the affair perfectly: Curran defended them. 
If I remember aright, too, they were convicted on the evi- 
dence of a noted informer.” 

“The circumstance is painfully impressed on my memory, 
by the fact that I have the misfortune to bear the same 


112 


ONE OF THEM. 


name ; and it is by my rank alone that I am able to avoid 
being mistaken for him. My name is Holmes.” 

“To be sure,” cried Layton, “Holmes was the name; 
Curran rendered it famous on that day.” 

The coachman had turned round to listen to this conversa- 
tion, and at its conclusion touched his hat to the Captain as 
if in polite acquiescence. 

By the time they had reached Castle Blayney, such had 
been the Captain’s success in ingratiating himself into Lay- 
ton’s good opinion, that the doctor had accepted his invita- 
tion to dinner. 

“We shall not dine with the coach travellers,” whispered 
the stranger, “but at a small house I ’ll show you just close 
by. I have already ordered my cutlet there, and there will 
be enough for us both.” 

Never was speech less boastful; a most admirable hot 
dinner was ready as they entered the little parlor, and such 
a bottle of port as Layton fancied he had never tasted the 
equal. By good luck there was ample time to enjoy these 
excellent things, as the mail was obliged to await at this 
place for an hour or more the arrival of a cross-post. A 
second and a third brother of the same racy vintage suc- 
ceeded; and Layton, warmed by the generous wine, grew 
open and confidential, not only in speaking of the past, but 
also to reveal all his hopes for the future, and the object of 
his journey. Though the Captain was nothing less than a 
man of science, he could fathom sufficiently the details the 
other gave to see that the speaker was no ordinary man, and 
his discovery no small invention. 

“Ay,” said the doctor, as, carried away by the excite- 
ment of the wine, he grew boastful and vain, “you ’ll see, 
sir, that the man who sat shivering beside you on the out- 
side of the mail without a great-coat to cover him, will, one 
of these days, be recognized as amongst the first of his 
nation, and along with Hunter and Bell and Brodie will 
stand the name of Herbert Layton ! ” 

“You had a very distinguished namesake once, a Fellow 
of Trinity — ” 

“Myself, sir, none other. I am the man!” cried he, in 
a burst of triumphant pride. “ I am — that is, I was — the 


A FELLOW-TRAVELLER ON THE COACH. 113 


Regius Professor of Medicine; I was Gold Medallist in 
18 — ; then Chancellor’s Prizeman; the following year 1 beat 
Stack and Naper, — you ’ve heard of them^ I ’m sure, on the 
Fellowship bench; I carried away the Verse prize from 
George Wolffe; and now, this day, — ay, sir, this day, — I 
don’t think I ’d have eaten if you had not asked me to dine 
with you.” 

“Come, come,” said the Captain, pushing the decanter 
towards him, “there are good days coming. Even in a 
moneyed point of view, your discovery is worth some fifteen 
or twenty thousand pounds.” 

“I ’d not sell it for a million; it shall be within the reach 
of the humblest peasant in the land the day I have perfected 
the details. It shall be for Parliament — the two Houses of 
the nation — to reward me, or I ’ll never accept a shilling.” 

“That ’s a very noble and high-spirited resolve. I like 
you for it; I respect you for it,” said the Captain, warmly. 

“I know well what had been my recognition if I had been 
born a German or a Frenchman. It is in England alone 
scientific discovery brings neither advancement nor honor. 
They pension the informer that betrays his confederates, 
and they leave the man of intellect to die, as Chatterton 
died, of starvation in a garret. Isn’t that true?” 

“ Too true, — too true, indeed ! ” sighed the Captain, 
mournfully. 

“And as to the Ireland of long ago,” said Layton, “how 
much more wise her present-day rulers are than those who 
governed her in times past, and whose great difficulty was 
to deal with a dominant class, and to induce them to abate 
any of the pretensions which years of tried loyalty would 
seem to have confirmed into rights! I speak as one who 
was once a ‘ United Irishman,’ ” said he. 

Laying down the glass he was raising to his lips, the 
Captain leaned across the table and grasped Layton’s hand; 
and although there was nothing in the gesture which a 
bystander could have noticed, it seemed to convey a secret 
signal, for Layton cried out exultingly, — 

“A brother in the cause! ” , 

“You may believe how your frank, outspoken nature has 
won upon me,” said he, “when I have confided to you a 

8 


114 


ONE OF THEM. 


secret that would, if revealed, certainly cost me my com- 
mission, and might imperil my life; but I will do more, 
Layton, I will tell you that our fraternity exists in full 
vigor, — not here, but thousands of miles away, — and Eng- 
land will have to reap in India the wrongs she has sown in 
Ireland/’ 

“With this I have no sympathy,” burst in Layton, boldly. 
“Our association — at least, as I understood it — was to 
elevate and enfranchise Ireland, not humiliate England. It 
was well enough for Wolfe Tone and men of his stamp to 
take this view, but Nielson and myself were differently 
minded, and we deemed that the empire would be but the 
greater when all who served it were equals.” 

Was it that the moment was propitious, was it that Lay- 
ton’s persuasive power was at its highest, was it that the 
earnest zeal of the man had carried conviction with his 
words? However it happened, the Captain, after listening 
to a long and well-reasoned statement, leaned his head 
thoughtfully on his hand, and said, — 

“I wish I had known you in earlier days, Layton. You 
have placed these things before me in a point I have never 
seen them before, nor do I believe that there are ten men 
amongst us who have. Grant me a favor,” said he, as if a 
sudden thought had just crossed him. 

“What is it?” asked Layton. 

“Come and stay a week or two with me at my little cottage 
at Glasnevin ; I am a bachelor, and live that sort of secluded 
life that will leave you ample time for your own pursuits.” 

“Give me a corner for my glass bottles and a furnace, and 
I ’m your man,” said Layton, laughingly. 

“You shall make a laboratory of anything but the dinner- 
room,” cried Holmes, shaking hands on the compact, and 
thus sealing it. 

The guard’s horn soon after summoned them to their 
places, and they once more were on the road. 

The men who have long waged a hand-to-hand combat 
with fortune, unfriended and uncheered, experience an 
intense enjoyment when comes the moment in which they 
can pour out all their sorrows and their selfishness into some 
confiding ear. It is no ordinary pleasure with them to taste 


A FELLOW-TRAVELLER ON THE COACH. 115 


the sympathy of a willing listener. Layton felt all the 
ecstasy of such a moment, and he told not alone of himself 
and his plans and his hopes, but of his son Alfred, — 
what high gifts the youth possessed, and how certain was 
he, if common justice should be but accorded to him, to win 
a great place in the world’s estimation. 

“The Captain” was an eager listener to all the other said, 
and never interrupted, save to throw in some passing word 
of encouragement, some cheering exhortation to bear up 
bravely and courageously. 

Layton’s heart warmed with the words of encouragement, 
and he confided many a secret source of hope that he had 
never revealed before. He told how, in the course of his 
labors, many an unexpected discovery had burst upon him, 
— now some great fact applicable to the smelting of metals, 
now some new invention available to agriculture. They 
were subjects, he owned, he had not pursued to any perfect 
result, but briefly committed to some rough notes, reserving 
them for a time of future leisure. 

“And if I cannot convince the world,” said he, laugh- 
ingly, “that they have neglected and ignored a great genius, 
I hope, at least, to make you a convert to that opinion.” 

“You see those tall elms yonder?” said Holmes, as they 
drew nigh Dublin. “Well, screened beneath their shade 
lies the little cottage I have told you about. Quiet and 
obscure enough now, but I ’m greatly mistaken if it will not 
one day be remembered as the spot where Herbert Layton 
lived when he brought his great discovery to completion.” 

“Do you really think so?” cried Layton, with a swelling 
feeling about the heart as though it would burst his side. 
“Oh, if I could only come to feel that hope myself! How 
it would repay me for all I have gone through! How it 
would reconcile me to my own heart ! ” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


HOW THEY LIVED AT THE VILLA. 

The Heathcotes had prolonged their stay at Marlia a full 
month beyond their first intention. It was now November, 
and yet they felt most unwilling to leave it. To be sure, it 
was the November of Italy in one of its most favored spots. 
The trees had scarcely begun to shed their leaves, and were 
only in that stage of golden and purple transition that showed 
the approach of winter. The grass was as green, and the 
dog-roses as abundant, as in May ; indeed, it was May itself, 
only wanting the fireflies and the violets. One must have 
felt the languor of an Italian summer, with its closed-shutter 
existence, its long days of reclusion, without exercise, with- 
out prospect, almost without light, to feel the intense delight 
a bright month of November can bring, with its pathways 
dry, its rivulets clear, its skies cloudless and blue, — to be 
able to be about again, to take a fast canter or a brisk walk, 
is enjoyment great as the first glow of convalescence after 
sickness. Never are the olive-trees more silvery ; never does 
the leafy fig, or the dark foliage of the orange, contrast so 
richly with its golden fruit. To enjoy all these was reason 
enough why the Heathcotes should linger there ; at least, 
they said that was their reason, and they believed it. Lay- 
ton, with his pupil, had established himself in the little city 
of Lucca, a sort of deserted, God-forgotten old place, with 
tumble-down palaces, with strange iron “ grilles ’’ and quaint 
old armorial shields over them ; he said they had gone there 
to study, and he believed it. 

Mr. O’Shea was still a denizen of the Panini Hotel at the 
Bagni, — from choice, he said, but he did not believe it ; the 
Morgans had gone back to Wales ; Mr. Mosely to Bond 
Street; and Quackinboss was off to “do” his Etruscan 


HOW THEY LIVED AT THE VILLA. 


117 


cities, the “pottery, and the rest of it; ” and so were they 
all scattered, Mrs. Penthony Morris and Clara being, how- 
ever, still at the villa, only waiting for letters to set out 
for Egypt. Her visit had been prolonged by only the very 
greatest persuasions. “She knew well — too bitterly did 
she know — what a blank would life become to her when 
she had quitted the dear villa.” “What a dreary awaking 
was in store for them.” “ What a sad reverse to poor Clara’s 
bright picture of existence.” “ The dear child used to fancy 
it could be all like this ! ” “ Better meet the misery at once 
than wait till they could not find strength to tear themselves 
away.” Such-like were the sentiments uttered, sometimes 
tearfully, sometimes in a sort of playful sadness, always very 
gracefully, by the softest of voices, accompanied by the most 
downcast of long-fringed eyelids. 

“ I am sure I don’t know how May will manage to live 
without her,” said Charles, who, be it confessed, was think- 
ing far more of his own sorrows than his cousin’s ; while he 
added, in a tone of well-assumed indifference, “We shall all 
miss her ! ” 

“ Miss her,” broke in Sir William ; “ by George ! her de- 
parture would create a blank in the society of a city, not to 
speak of a narrow circle in a remote country-house.” As for 
May herself, she was almost heart-broken at the thought of 
separation. It w^as not alone the winning graces of her 
manner, and the numberless captivations she possessed, but 
that she had really such a “ knowledge of the heart,” she had 
given her such an insight into her own nature, that, but for 
her, she had never acquired ; and poor May would shudder 
at the thought of the ignorance with which she had been 
about to commence the voyage of life, until she had for- 
tunately chanced upon this skilful pilot. But for Mrs. 
Morris it was possible, nay, it was almost certain, she 
should one day or other have married Charles Heathcote, 
— united herself to one in everyway unsuited to her, “a 
good-tempered, easy-natured, indolent creature, with no 
high ambitions, — a man to shoot and fish, and play bil- 
liards, and read French novels, but not the soaring intel- 
lect, not the high intelligence, the noble ascendancy of 
mind, that should win such a heart as yours. May.” How 


118 


ONE OF THEM. 


strange it was that she should never before have recog- 
nized in Charles all the blemishes and shortcomings she 
now detected in his character ! How singular that she had 
never remarked how selfish he was, how utterly absorbed 
in his own pursuits, how little deference he had for the 
ways or wishes of others, and then, how abrupt, almost to 
rudeness, his manners ! To be sure, part of this careless 
and easy indifference might be ascribed to a certain sense 
of security; “ he knows you are betrothed to him, dearest; 
he is sure you must one day be his wife, or, very probably, 
he would be very different, — more of an ardent suitor, more 
eager and anxious in his addresses. Ah, there it is ! men 
are ever so, and yet they expect that we poor creatures are 
to accept that half fealty as a full homage, and be content 
with that small measure of affection they deign to accord us ! 
That absurd Will has done it all, dear child. It is one of 
those contracts men make on parchment, quite forgetting 
that there are such things as human affections. You must 
marry him, and there ’s an end of it ! ” 

Now, Charles, on his side, was very fond of his cousin. 
If he was n’t in love with her, it was because he did n’t very 
well understand what being in love meant ; he had a notion, 
indeed, that it implied giving up hunting and coursing, 
having no dogs, not caring for the Derby, or even opening 
“ Punch ” or smoking a cigar. Well, he could, he believed, 
submit to much, perhaps all, of these, but he could n’t, at 
least he did n’t fancy he could, be “ spooney.” He came to 
Mrs. Morris with confessions of this kind, and she under- 
took to consider his case. 

Lastly, there was Sir William to consult her about his son 
and his ward. He saw several nice and difficult points in 
their so-called engagement which would require the delicate 
hand of a clever woman ; and where could he find one more 
to the purpose than Mrs. Penthony Morris? 

With a skill all her own, she contrived to have confidential 
intercourse almost every day with each of the family. If 
she wished to see Sir William, it was only to pretend to 
write a letter, or look for some volume in the library, and 
she was sure to meet him. May was always in her own 
drawing-room, or the flower-garden adjoining it ; and Charles 


HOW THEY LIVED AT THE VILLA. 


119 


passed his day rambling listlessly about the stables and the 
farm-yard, or watching the peasants at their work beneath 
the olive-trees. To aid her plans, besides, Clara could 
always be despatched to occupy and engage the intention of 
some other. Not indeed, that Clara was as she used to be. 
Far from it. The merry, light-hearted, capricious child, with 
all her strange and wayward ways, was changed into a 
thoughtful, pensive girl, loviug to be alone and unnoticed. 
So far from exhibiting her former dislike to study, she was 
now intensely eager for it, passing whole days and great 
part of the night at her books. There was about her that 
purpose-like intentness that showed a firm resolve to learn. 
Nor was it alone in this desire for acquirement that she was 
changed, but her whole temper and disposition seemed 
altered. She had grown more gentle and more obedient. 
If her love of praise was not less, she accepted it with more 
graceful modesty, and appeared to feel it rather as a kind- 
ness than an acknowledged debt. The whole character of 
her looks, too, had altered. In place of the elfin sprightliness 
of her ever-laughing eyes, their expression was soft even to 
sadness ; her voice, that once had the clear ringing of a 
melodious bell, had grown low, and with a tender sweetness 
that gave to each word a peculiar grace. 

“What is the matter with Clara?” said Sir William, as 
he found himself, one morning, alone with Mrs. Morris in 
the library. “ She never sings now, and she does not seem 
the same happy creature she used to be.” 

“Can you not detect the cause of this. Sir William?” 
said her mother, with a strange sparkle in her eyes. 

“ I protest I cannot. It is not, surely, that she is unhappy 
here ? ” 

“No, no, very far from that.” 

“ It cannot be ill health, for she is the very picture of the 
contrary.” 

“ No, no,’’ said her mother again. 

“ What can it be? ” 

“ Say, rather, who?” broke in Mrs. Morris, “ and I’ll tell 
you.” 

“ Who, then? Tell me by all means.” 

“Mr. Layton. Yes, Sir William, this is his doing. I 


120 


ONE OF THEM. 


have remarked it many a day back. You are aware, of 
course, how sedulously he endeavors to make himself accep- 
table in another quarter ? ” 

“What do you mean? What quarter? Surely you do 
not allude to my ward ? ” 

“You certainly do not intend me to believe that you have 
not seen this. Sir William? 

“ I declare not only that I have never seen, but never 
so much as suspected it. And have you seen it, Mrs. 
Morris?” 

“ Ah! Sir William, this is our woman’s privilege, though 
really in the present case it did not put the faculty to any 
severe test.” 

For a moment or two he made no reply, and then said, 
“And Charles — has Charles remarked it?” 

“ I really cannot tell you. His manner is usually so easy 
and indifferent about everything, that, whether it comes of 
not seeing or never caring, I cannot pretend to guess.” 

“ I asked the young man here, because he was with Lord 
Agincourt,” began Sir William, who was most eager to offer 
some apologies to himself for any supposed indiscretion. 
“ Agincourt’s guardian. Lord Sommerville, and myself have 
had some unpleasant passages in life, and I wished to show 
the boy that towards him I bore no memory of the ills I 
received from his uncle. In fact, I was doubly civil and 
attentive on that account ; but as for Mr. Layton, — is n’t 
that his name?” 

“ Yes ; Alfred Layton.” 

“Layton came as the lad’s tutor, — nothing more. He 
appeared a pleasing, inoffensive, well-bred young fellow. 
But surely, Mrs. Morris, my ward has given him no en- 
couragement? ” 

“Encouragement is a strong word. Sir William,” said 
she, smiling archly ; “I believe it is only widows who give 
encouragement?” 

“Well, well,” said he, hurriedly, and not caring to smile, 
for he was in no jesting mood, “ has she appeared to under- 
stand his attentions?” 

“Even young ladies make no mistakes on that score,’' 
said she, in the same bantering tone. 


HOW THEY LIVED AT THE VILLA. 121 

“And I never to see it!” exclaimed he, as he walked 
hurriedly to and fro. “ But I ought to have seen it, eh, 
Mrs. Morris? — I ought to have seen it. I ought, at least,, 
to have suspected that these fellows are always on the look- 
out for such a chance as this. Now I suppose you ’ll laugh 
at me for the confession, but my attention was entirely en- 
gaged by watching our Irish friend.” 

“ The great O’Shea ! ” exclaimed Mrs. Morris, laughing. 

“And to tell you the truth, I never could exactly satisfy 
myself whether he came here to ogle my ward, or win 
Charley’s half-crowns at billiards.” 

“I imagine, if you asked him, he’d say he was in for the 
‘ double event,’ ” said she, with a laugh. 

“ And, then, Mrs. Morris,” added he, with a sly smile, 
“if I must be candid, I fancied, or thought I fancied, hi& 
attentions had another object.” 

“Towards me!** said she, calmly, but in an accent as 
honest, as frank, and as free from all concern as though 
speaking of a third person. “Oh, that is quite true. Mr. 
Layton also made his little quiet love to me as college men 
do it, and I accepted the homage of both, feeling that I was 
a sort of lightning-conductor that might rescue the rest of 
the building.” 

Sir William laughed as much at the arch quietness of her 
manner as her words. “ How blind I have been all this 
time ! ” burst he in, angrily, as he reverted to the subject of 
his chagrin. “I suppose there’s not another man living 
would not have seen this but myself.” 

“No, no,” said she, gently; “men are never nice ob- 
servers in these matters.” 

“ Well, better late than never, eh, Mrs. Morris? Better 
to know it even now. Forewarned, — as the adage says, — 
eh?” 

In these little broken sentences he sought to comfort him- 
self, while he angled for some consolation from his com- 
panion ; but she gave him none, — not a word, nor a look, 
nor a gesture. 

“ Of course I shall forbid him the house.” 

“And make a hero of him from that moment, and a 
martyr of her,” quietly replied she. “By such a measure 


122 


ONE OF THEM. 


as this you would at once convert what may be possibly a 
passing flirtation into a case of love.” 

‘ ‘ So that I am to leave the course free, and give him 
every opportunity to prosecute his suit?” 

“ Not exactly. But do not erect barriers just high enough 
to be surmounted. Let him come here just as usual, and I 
will try if I cannot entangle him in a little serious flirtation 
with myself, which certainly, if it succeed, will wound May’s 
pride, and cure her of any weakness for him.” 

Sir William made no reply, but he stared at the speaker 
with a sort of humorous astonishment, and somehow her 
cheek flushed under the look. 

“These are womanish artifices, which you men hold 
cheaply, of course ; but little weapons suit little wars, Sir 
William, and such are our campaigns. At all events, count 
upon my aid till Monday next.” 

“ And why not after? ” 

“Because the Peninsular and Oriental packet touches at 
Malta on Saturday, and Clara and I must be there in time 
to catch it.” 

“Oh no; we cannot spare you. In fact, we are decided 
on detaining you. May would break up house here and 
follow you to the Pyramids, — the Upper Cataracts, — any- 
where, in short. But leave us you must not.” 

She covered her face with her handkerchief, and never 
spoke, but a slight motion of her shoulders showed that she 
was sobbing. “I have been so uncandid with you all this 
time,” said she, in broken accents. “ I should have told 
you all, — everything. I ought to have confided to you the 
whole sad story of my terrible bereavement and its conse- 
quences; but I could not. No, Sir William, I could not 
endure the thought of darkening the sunshine of all the hap- 
piness I saw here by the cloud of my sorrows. When I 
only saw faces of joy around me, I said to my heart, ‘ What 
right have I, in my selfishness, to obtrude here? ’ And then, 
again, I bethought me, ‘ Would they admit me thus freely 
to their hearth and home if they knew the sad, sad story ? ’ 
In a word,” said she, throwing down the handkerchief, and 
turning towards him with soft and tearful eyes, “ I could 
not risk the chance of losing your affection, for you might 


HOW THEY LIVED AT THE VILLA. 123 

have censured, you might have thought me too unforgiving, 
— too relentless ! ” 

Here she again bent down her head, and was lost in an 
access of fresh afflictions. 

Never was an elderly gentleman more puzzled than Sir 
William. He felt that he ought to offer consolation, but of 
what nature or for what calamity he could n’t even guess. 
It was an awkward case altogether, and he never fancied 



awkward cases at any time. Then he had that unchivalric 
sentiment that elderly gentlemen occasionally will have, — a 
sort of half distrust of “ injured women.” This was joined 
to a sense of shame that it was usually supposed by the 
world men of his time of life were always the ready victims 
of such sympathies. In fact, he disliked the situation im- 
mensely, and could only muster a few commonplace remarks 
to extricate himself from it. 

‘‘You’ll let me tell you everything; I know you will,” 
said she, looking bewitchingly soft and tender through her 
tears. 


124 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ Of course I will, my dear Mrs. Morris, but not now, — 
not to-day. You really are not equal to it at this moment.” 

“True, I am not ! ” said she, drying her eyes ; “ but it is a 
promise, and you ’ll not forget it.” 

“ You only do me honor in the confidence,” said he, kiss- 
ing her hand. 

“A thousand pardons ! ” cried a rich brogue. And at the 
same moment the library door was closed, and the sound of 
retreating steps was heard along the corridor. 

“ That insufferable O’Shea ! ” exclaimed she. “ What will 
he not say of us? ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE BILLIARD-ROOM. 

Mr. O’Shea had a very happy knack at billiards. It was 
an accomplishment which had stood him more in stead in life 
than even his eloquence in the House, his plausibility in the 
world, or his rose-amethyst ring. That adventurous category 
of mankind, who have, as Curran phrased it, “ the title- 
deeds of their estates under the crown of their hats,” must, 
out of sheer necessity, cultivate their natural gifts to a 
higher perfection than that well-to-do, easy-living class for 
whom Fortune has provided “ land and beeves,” and are 
obliged to educate hand, eye, and hearing to an amount of 
artistic excellence of which others can form no conception. 
Now, just as the well-trained singer can modulate his tones, 
suiting them to the space around him, or as the orator so 
pitches his voice as to meet the ears of his auditory, without 
any exaggerated effort, so did the Member for Inch measure 
out his skill,, meting it to the ability of his adversary with a 
graduated nicety as delicate as that of a chemist in appor- 
tioning the drops of a precious medicament. 

It was something to see him play. There was a sort of 
lounging elegance, — a half purpose-like energy, dashed with 
indolence, — a sense of power, blended with indifference, — a 
something that bespoke the caprice of genius, mingled with 
a spirit that seemed to whisper that, after all, “ cannons ” 
were only vanity, and “ hazards ” themselves but vexation of 
spirit. He was, though a little past his best years, a good- 
looking fellow, — a thought too pluffy, perhaps, and more 
than a thought too swaggering and pretentious ; but some- 
how these same attributes did not detract from the display 
of certain athletic graces of which the game admits, for, 


126 


ONE OF THEM. 


after all, it was only Antinous fallen a little into flesh, and 
seen in his waistcoat. 

It was mainly to this accomplishment he owed the invita- 
tions he received to the villa. Charles Heathcote, fully con- 
vinced of his own superiority at the game, was piqued and 
irritated at the other’s success; while Sir William w^as, 
perhaps, not sorry that his son should receive a slight lesson 
on the score of his self-esteem, particularly where the price 
should not be too costly. The billiard-room thus became 
each evening the resort of all in the villa. Thither May 
Leslie fetched her work, and Mrs. Morris her crochet 
needles, and Clara her book ; w^hile around the table itself 
were met young Heathcote, Lord Agincourt, O’Shea, and 
Layton. Of course the stake they played for was a mere 
trifle, — a mere nominal prize, rather intended to record vic- 
tory than reward the victors, — just as certain taxes are 
maintained more for statistics than revenue, — and half- 
crowns changed hands without costing the loser an after- 
thought ; so at least the spectators understood, and all but 
one believed. Her quiet and practised eye, however, de- 
tected in Charles Heathcote’s manner something more sig- 
nificant than the hurt pride of a beaten player, and saw 
under all the external show of O’Shea’s indifference a purpose- 
like energy, little likely to be evoked for a trifling stake. 
Under the pretext of marking the game, a duty for which 
she had offered her services, she was enabled to watch what 
went forward without attracting peculiar notice, and she 
could perceive how, from time to time, Charles and O’Shea 
would exchange a brief word as they passed, — sometimes a 
monosyllable, sometimes a nod, — and at such times the 
expression of Heathcote’s face would denote an increased 
anxiety and irritation. It was while thus watching one even- 
ing, a chance phrase she overheard confirmed all her suspi- 
cions, — it was wdiile bending down her head to show some 
peculiar stitch to May Leslie that she brought her ear to 
catch what passed. 

“ This makes three hundred,” whispered Charles. 

“ And fifty,” rejoined O’Shea, as cautiously. 

“ Nothing of the kind,” answered Charles, angrily. 

“ You ’ll find I ’rn right,” said the other, knocking the balls 


THE BILLIARD-ROOM. 


127 


about to drown the words. “Are you for another game?’^ 
asked he, aloud. 

“ No ; I ’ve had enough of it,” said Charles, impatiently^ 
as he drew out his cigar-case, — trying to cover his irritation 
by searching for a cigar to his liking. 

“I’m your man, Inch-o’-brogue,” broke in Agincourt ; for 
it was by this impertinent travesty of the name of liis^ 
borough he usually called him. 

“What, isn't the pocket-money all gone yet?” said the 
other, contemptuously. 

“ Not a bit of it, man. Look at that,” cried he, drawing 
forth a long silk purse, plumply filled. “ There ’s enough to 
pay off the mortgage on an Irish estate, I ’m sure ! ” 

While these freedoms were being interchanged, Charles 
Heathcote had left the room, and strolled out into the gar- 
den. Mrs. Morris, affecting to go in search of something 
for her work, took occasion also to go ; but no sooner had 
she escaped from the room than she followed him. 

Why was it, can any one say, that May Leslie bestowed 
more than ordinary attention on the game at this moment, 
evincing an interest in it she had never shown before ? Mr. 
O’Shea had given the young Marquis immense odds ; but he 
went further, he played off a hundred little absurdities to 
increase the other’s chances, — he turned his back to the 
table, — he played with his left hand, — he poked the balls 
without resting his cue, — he displayed the most marvellous 
dexterity, accomplishing hazards that seemed altogether 
beyond all calculation ; for all crafty and subtle as he was, 
vanity had got the mastery over him, and his self-conceit 
rose higher and higher with every astonished expression of 
the pretty girl who watched him. While May could not 
restrain her astonishment at his skill, O’Shea’s efforts to win 
her praise redoubled. 

“I’ll yield to no man in a game of address,” said he, 
boastfully : “to ride across country, to pull a boat, to shoot, 
fish, fence, or swim — There, my noble Marquis, drop your 
tin into that pocket and begin another game. I ’ll give you 
eighty-five out of a hundred.” 

“ Is n’t he what Quackinboss would call a ’ternal swag- 
gerer, May?” cried Agincourt. 


128 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ He is a most brilliant billiard-player,” said May, smiling 
■courteously, with a glance towards the recess of the window, 
where Layton was leaning over Clara’s chair and reading out 
of the book she held in her hand. “ How I wish you would 
give me some lessons ! ” added she, still slyly stealing a look 
at the window. 

“Charmed, — only too happy. You overwhelm me with 
the honor. Miss Leslie, and my name is not O’Shea if I do 
not make you an admirable player, for I ’ve remarked 
already you have great correctness of eye.” 

“ Indeed ! ” 

“ Astonishing ; and with that, a wonderfully steady hand.” 

“ How you flatter me ! ” 

“ Flatter? Ah, you little know me. Miss Leslie ! ” said he, 
as he passed before her. 

May blushed, for at that moment Layton had lifted his 
eyes from the .book and turned them full upon her. So 
steadfastly did he continue to look, that her cheek grew 
hotter and redder, and a something like resentment seemed 
to possess her ; while he, as though suddenly conscious of 
having in some degree committed himself, held down his 
head in deep confusion. 

May Leslie arose from her seat, and, with a haughty 
toss of her head, drew nigh the table. 

“Are you going to join us. May?” cried the boy, 
merrily. 

“I ’m going to take my first lesson, if Mr. O’Shea will 
permit me,” said she; but the tone of her voice vibrated 
less with pleasure than resentment. 

“I’m at my lessons, too. May,” cried Clara, from the 
window. “Is it not kind of him to help me? ” 

“Most kind, — most considerate!” said May, abruptly; 
and then, throwing down the cue on the table, she said, “ I 
fancy I have a headache. I hope you ’ll excuse me for the 
present.” And almost ere Mr. O’Shea could answer, she 
bad left the room. Clara speedily followed her, and for a 
minute or two not a word was uttered by the others. 

“I move that the house be counted,” cried the Member 
for Inch. “What has come over them all this evening? 
Do you know, Layton ? ” 


THE BILLIAKD-ROOM. 


129 


“Do / know? Know what?’^ cried Alfred, trying to 
arouse himself out of a re very. 

“Do you know that Inch-o’ -brogue has not left me five 
shillings out of my last quarter’s allowance? ” said the boy. 

“You must pay for your education, my lad,” said O’Shea. 
“I did n’t get mine for nothing. Layton there can teach you 
longs and shorts, to scribble nonsense-verses, and the like; 
but for the real science of life, ‘ how to do them as has done 
you^'* you must come to fellows like me.” 

“Yes, there is much truth in that^"* said Layton, who, not 
having heard one word the other had spoken, corroborated 
all of it, out of pure distraction of mind. 

The absurdity was too strong for Agincourt and O’Shea, 
and they both laughed out. “Come,” said O’Shea, slap- 
ping Layton on the shoulder, “wake up, and roll the balls 
about. I ’ll play you your own game, and give you five- 
and- twenty odds. There ’s a sporting offer! ” 

“Make it to me,” broke in Agincourt. 

“So 1 would, if you weren’t pumped out, my noble 
Marquis.” 

“And could you really bring yourself to win a boy’s 
pocket-money, — a mere boy? ” said Layton, now suddenly 
aroused to full consciousness, and coming so close to O’Shea 
as to be inaudible to the other. 

“Smallest contributions thankfully received, is my motto,” 
said O’Shea. “ Not but, as a matter of education, the youth 
has gained a deuced sight more from me than you ! ” 

“The reproach is just,” said Layton, bitterly. ^^Ihave 
neglected my trust, — grossly neglected it, — and in nothing 
more than suffering him to keep your company.” 

“Oh ! is that your tone? ” whispered the other, still lower. 
“Thank your stars for it, you never met a man more ready 
to humor your whim.” 

“ What ’s the ‘ Member ’ plotting? ” said Agincourt, com- 
ing up between them. “Do let me into the plan.” 

“It is something he wishes to speak to me about to- 
morrow at eleven o’clock,” said Layton, with a significant 
look at O’Shea, “and which is a matter strictly between 
ourselves.” 


9 


130 


ONE OF THEM. 


“All right,” said Agincourt, turning back to the table 
again, while O’Shea, with a nod of assent, left the room. 

“We must set to work vigorously to-morrow, Henry,” said 
Layton, laying his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You have 
fallen into idle ways, and the fault is all my own. For both 
our sakes, then, let us amend it.” 

“Whatever you like, Alfred,” said the boy, turning on 
him a look of real affection; “only never blame yourself if 
you don’t make a genius of me. 1 was always a stupid 
dog!” 

“You are a true-hearted English boy,” muttered Layton, 
half to himself, “and well deserved to have fallen into more 
careful hands than mine. Promise me, however, all your 
efforts to repair the past.” 

“That I will,” said he, grasping the other’s hand, and 
shaking it in token of his pledge. “But I still think,” said 
he, in a slightly broken voice, “they might have made a 
sailor of me; they ’ll never make a scholar! ” 

“We must get away; we must leave this,” said Layton, 
speaking half to himself. 

“I’m sorry for it,” replied the boy. “I like the old villa, 
and I like Sir William and Charley, and the girls too. 
Ay, and I like that trout stream under the alders, and that 
jolly bit of grass land where we have just put up the hur- 
dles. I say, Layton,” added he, with a sigh, “I wonder 
when shall we be as happy as we have been here ? ” 

“Who knows?” said Layton, sorrowfully. 

“I ’m sure I never had such a pleasant time of it in my 
life. Have you?” 

— I don’t know, — that is, I believe not. I mean, 
never,” stammered out Layton, in confusion. 

“Ha! I fancied as much. I thought you didn’t like it 
as well as 1 did.” 

“Why so?” asked Layton, eagerly. 

“It was May put it into my head the other morning. She 
said it was downright cruelty to make you come out and 
stop here; that you could n’t, with all your politeness, con- 
ceal how much the place bored you ! ” 

“She said this?” 

“Yes; and she added that if it were not for Clara, with 


THE BILLIARD-ROOM. 


131 


her German lessons and her little Venetian barcarolles, you 
would have been driven to desperation.” 

“But you could have told her, Henry, that I delighted in 
this place; that I never had passed such happy days as here.” 

“ I did think so when we knew them first, but latterly it 
seemed to me that you were somehow sadder and graver than 
you used to be. You did n’t like to ride with us; you sel- 
dom came down to the river; you’d pass all the morning 
in the library ; and, as May said, you only seemed happy 
when you were giving Clara her lesson in German.” 

“And to whom did May say this?” 

“To me and to Clara. 

“And Clara, — did she make any answer?” 

“Not a word. She got very pale, and seemed as though 
she would burst out a-crying. Heaven knows why! In- 
deed, I ’m not sure the tears were n’t in her eyes, as she 
hurried away; and it was the only day I ever saw May 
Leslie cross.” 

“i never saw her so,” said Layton, half rebukefully. 

“Then you did'n’t see her on that day, that’s certain! 
She snubbed Charley about his riding, and would n’t suffer 
Mrs. Morris to show her something that had gone wrong in 
her embroidery; and when we went down to the large 
drawing-room to rehearse our tableau, — that scene you 
wrote for us, — she refused to take a part, and said, ‘ Get 
Clara; she ’ll do it better! ’ ” 

“And it was thus our little theatricals fell to the ground,” 
said Layton, musingly; “and I never so much as suspected 
all this!” 

“Well,” said the boy, with a hesitating manner, “I be- 
lieve I ought not to have told you. I ’m sure she never in- 
tended I should; but somehow, after our tiff — ” 

“And did you quarrel with her?” asked Layton, eagerly. 

“Not quarrel, exactly; but it was what our old com- 
mander used to call a false-alarm fire; for I thought her 
unjust and unfair towards you, and always glad when she 
could lay something or other to your charge, and I said so 
to her frankly.” 

“And she?” 

“She answered me roundly enough. ‘ When you are a 


132 


ONE OF THEM. 


little older, young gentleman,* said she, ‘ you ’ll begin to 
discover that our likings and dislikings are not always 
under our own control.’ She tried to be very calm and 
cool as she said it, but she was as pale as if going to faint 
before she finished.” 

“She said truly,” muttered Layton to himself; “our im- 
pulses are but the shadows our vices or virtues throw before 
them.” Then laying his arm on the boy’s shoulder, he led 
him away, to plan and plot out a future course of study, and 
repair all past negligence and idleness. 

Ere we leave this scene, let us follow Mrs. Morris, who, 
having quitted the house, quickly went in search of Charles 
Heathcote. There was that in the vexed and angry look of 
the young man, as he left the room, that showed her how 
easy it would be in such a moment to become his confi- 
dante. Through the traits of his resentment she could read 
an impatience that could soon become indiscretion. “Let 
me only be the repository of an}^ secret of his mind,” mut- 
tered she, — “1 care not what, — and I ask nothing more. 
If there be one door of a house open, — be it the smallest, 

- — it is enough to enter by.” 

She had not to go far in her search. There was a small 
raised terrace at the end of the garden, — a favorite spot 
with him, — and thither she had often herself repaired to 
enjoy the secret luxury of a cigar; for Mrs. Morris smoked 
whenever opportunity permitted that indulgence without 
the hazard of forfeiting the good opinion of such as might 
have held the practice in disfavor. Now, Charles Heath- 
cote was the only confidant of this weakness, and the mys- 
tery, small as it was, had served to establish a sort of bond 
between them. 

“I knew I should find you here,” said she, stealing noise- 
lessly to his side, as, leaning over the terrace, he stood deep 
in thought. “Give me a cigar.” 

He took the case slowly from his pocket, and held it 
towards her in silence. 

“How vastly polite! Choose one for me, sir,” said she, 
pettishly. 

“They ’re all alike,” said he, carelessly, as he drew one 
from the number and offered it. 


THE BILLIARD-ROOM. 


133 


“And now a light,” said she, “for 1 see yours has gone 
out, without your knowing it. Pray do mind what you ’re 
doing ; you ’ve let the match fall on my foot. Look 
there ! ” 

And he did look, and saw the prettiest foot and roundest 
ankle that ever Parisian coquetry had done its uttermost 
to grace; but he only smiled half languidly, and said, 
“There’s no mischief done — to either of us!” the last 
w'ords being muttered to himself. Her sharp ears, how- 
ever, had caught them ; and had he looked at her then, he 
would have seen her face a deep crimson. “Is the play 
over? Have they left the billiard-room? ” asked he. 

“Of course it is over,” said she, mockingly. “ Sportsmen 
rarely linger in the preserves w'here there is no game.” 

“What do you think of that same Mr. O’Shea? You 
rarely mistake people. Tell me frankly your opinion of 
him,” said he, abruptly. 

“He plays billiards far better than yow,” said she, dryly. 

“I’m not talking of his play, I’m asking what you think 
of him.” 

“He’s your master at whist, ecarte, and piquet. I think 
he ’s a better pistol shot; and he says he rides better.” 

“I defy him. He ’s a boastful, conceited fellow. Take 
his own account, and you ’ll not find his equal anywhere. 
But still, all this is no answer to my question.” 

“Yes, but it is, though. When a man possesses a very 
wide range of small accomplishments in a high degree of 
perfection, I always take it for granted that he lives by 
them.” 

“Just what I thought, — exactly what I suspected,” broke 
he in, angrily. “I don’t know how we ever came to admit 
him here, as we have. That passion May has for opening 
the doors to every one has done it all.” 

“If people will have a menagerie, they must make up their 
mind to meet troublesome animals now and then,” said she, 
dryly. 

“And then,” resumed he, “the absurdity is, if I say one 
word, the reply is, ‘ Oh, you are so jealous ! ’ ” 

“Naturally enough! ” was the cool remark. 

“Naturally enough! And why naturall}’ enough? Is it 


134 


ONE OF THEM. 


of such fellows as Layton or O’Shea I should think of being 
jealous? ” 

“1 think you might,” said she, gravely. “They are, each 
of them, very eager to succeed in that about which you 
show yourself sufficiently indifferent; and although May is 
certainly bound by the terms of her father’s will, there are 
conditions by which she can purchase her freedom.” 

“Purchase her freedom! And is that the way she regards 
her position?” cried he, trembling with agitation. 

“Can you doubt it? Need you do more than ask yourself. 
How do you look on your own case ? And yet you are not 
going to bestow a great fortune. I ’m certain that, do what 
you will, your heart tells you it is a slave’s bargain.” 

“Did May tell you so?” said he, in a voice thick with 
passion. 

“No.” 

“Did she ever hint as much?” 

“No.” 

“Do you believe that any one ever dared to say it?” 

‘‘As to that, I can’t say; the world is very daring, and 
says a great many naughty things without much troubling 
itself about their correctness.” 

“It may spare its censure on the present occasion, 
then.” 

“Is it that you will not exact her compliance?” 

“I will not.” 

“How well I read you,” cried she, catching up his cold 
and still reluctant hand between both her own ; “ how truly 
I understood your noble, generous nature ! It was but yes- 
terday I was writing about you to a very dear friend, who 
had asked me when the marriage was to take place, and I 
said : ‘ If I have any skill in deciphering character, I should 
say, Never. Charles Heathcote is not the man to live a 
pensioner on a wife’s rental; he is far more likely to take 
service again as a soldier, and win a glorious name amongst 
those who are now reconquering India. His daring spirit 
chafes against the inglorious idleness of his present life, 
and I’d not wonder any morning to see his place vacant 
at the breakfast-table, and to hear he had sailed for 
Alexandria. ’ ” 


THE BILLIARD-ROOM. 


135 


“You do me a fuller justice than many who have known 
me longer/* said he, pensively. 

“Because I read you more carefully, — because I consid- 
ered you without any disturbing element of self-interest; 
and if 1 was now and then angry at the lethargic indolence 
of your daily life, I used to correct myself and say, ‘ Be 
patient; his time is coming; and when the hour has once 
struck for him, he *11 dally no longer! ’ ” 

“And my poor father — ” 

“Say, rather, your proud father, for he is the man to 
appreciate your noble resolution, and feel proud of his son.’* 
“But to leave him — to desert him — ** 

“It is no eternal separation. In a year or two you will 
rejoin him, never to part again. Take my word for it, the 
consciousness that his son is accomplishing a high duty will 
be a strong fund of consolation for absence. It is to mis- 
take him to suppose that he could look on your present life 
without deep regret.** 

“Ah! is that so?** cried he, with an expression of pain. 
“He has never owned as much to me; but I have read it 
in him, just as I have read in you that you are not the man 
to stoop to an ignominious position to purchase a life of 
ease and luxury.** 

“You were right there! ** said he, warmly. 

“Of course I was. I could not be mistaken.** 

“You shall not be, at all events,** said he, hurriedly. 
“How cold your hand is! Let us return to the house.” 
And they walked back in silence to the door. 


CHAPTER XV. 


MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS AT HER WRITING-TABLE. 

It was late on that same night, — very late. The villa was 
all quiet and noiseless as Mrs. Morris sat at her writing- 
table, engaged in a very long letter. The epistle does not 
in any way enter into our story. It was to her father, in 
reply to one she had just received from him, and solely 
referred to little family details with which our reader can 
have no interest, save in a passing reference to a character 
already before him, and of whom she thus wrote: — 

“ And so your alchemist turns out to be the father of my admirer, 
Mr. Alfred Layton. I can sincerely say your part of the family is 
the more profitable, for I should find it a very difficult problem to 
make five hundred pounds out of mine ! Nor can I sufficiently ad- 
mire the tact with which you rescued even so much from such a 
wreck ! I esteem your cleverness the more, since — shall I confess 
it, dear papa ? — I thought that the man of acids and alkalies would 
turn out to be the rogue and you the dupe ! Let me hasten, there- 
fore, to make the amende honorable^ and compliment you on j-^our 
new character of chemist. 

“ In your choice, too, of the mode of disembarrassing yourself of 
his company, you showed an admirable wisdom ; and you very justly 
observe, these are not times when giving a dog a bad name will save 
the trouble of hanging him, otherwise an exposure of his treasonable 
principles might have sufficed. Far better was the method you 
selected, while, by making Mm out to be mad, you make yourself oat 
to be benevolent. You have caught, besides, a very popular turn of 
the public mind at a lucky conjuncture. There is quite a vogue just 
now for shutting up one’s mother-in-law, or one’s wife, or any other 
disagreeable domestic ingredient, on the plea of insanity ; and a very 
clever physician, with what is called ‘ an ingenious turn of mind,’ 
will find either madness or arsenic in any given substance. You 
will, however, do wisely to come .ibroad, for the day will come of a 


MUS. PENTHONY MORRIS AT HER WRITING-TABLE. 13T 


reaction, and ‘ the lock-up * system will be converted into the ‘ let- 
loose,’ and a sort of doomsday arrive when one will be confronted 
with very unwelcome acquaintances.” 


As she had written thus far, a very gentle voice at her 
door whispered, “May I come in, dearest?” 

“Oh, darling, is it you?” cried Mrs. Morris, throwing a 
sheet of paper over her half- written epistle. “I was just 
writing about you. My sweet May, I have a dear old god- 
mother down in Devonshire who loves to hear of those whO' 
love me ; and it is such a pleasure, besides, to write about 
those who are happy.” 

“And you call me one of them, do you?” said the girl,, 
with a deep sigh. 

“I call you one who has more of what makes up happiness 
than any I have ever known. You are very beautiful, — 
nay, no blushing, it is a woman says it ; so handsome. May, 
that it is downright shame of Fortune to have made you 
rich too. You should have been left to your beauty, as. 
other people are left to their great connections, or their 
talents, or their Three per Cents; and then you are sur- 
rounded by those who love you. May, — a very commendable 
thing in a world which has its share of disagreeable people; 
and, lastly, to enjoy all these fair gifts, you have got 
youth.” 

“1 shall be nineteen on the fourth of next month, Lucy,” 
said the other, gravely; “and it was just about that very 
circumstance that I came to speak to you.” 

Mrs. Morris knew thoroughly well what the speech por- 
tended, but she looked all innocence and inquiry. 

“You are aware, Lucy, what my coming of age brings 
with it?” said the girl, half pettishly. 

“ That you become a great millionnaire, dearest, — a sort 
of female Rothschild, with funds and stocks in every land 
of the earth.” 

“ I was not speaking of money. I was alluding to the 
necessity of deciding as to my own fate in life. I told you 
that by my father’s will I am bound to declare that I accept 
or reject Charles Heathcote within six months after my 
coming of age.” 


138 


ONE OF THEM. 


“I do not, I confess, see anything very trying in that, 
May. I conclude that you know enough of your own mind 
to say whether you like him or not. You are not strangers 
to each other. You have been domesticated together — ” 

“ That’s the very difficulty,” broke in May. “ There has 
been intimacy between us, but nothing like affection, — 
familiarity enough, but no fondness.” 

‘‘Perhaps that’s not so bad a feature as you deem it,” 
said the other, dryly. “ Such a tame, table-land prospect 
before marriage may all the better prepare you for the dull 
uniformity of wedded life.” 

May gave a slight sigh, and was silent, while the other 
continued, — 

“ Being very rich, dearest, is, of course, a great resource, 
for you can, by the mere indulgence of your daily caprices, 
give yourself a sort of occupation, and a kind of interest in 
life.” 

May sighed again, and more heavily. 

“ I know this is not what one dreams of, my dear May,” 
resumed she, “ and I can well imagine how reluctant you are 
to seek happiness in toy terriers or diamond earrings ; but 
remember what I told you once before was the great lesson 
the world taught us, that every joy we compass in this life 
is paid for dearly, in some shape or other, and that the sys- 
tem is one great scheme of compensations, the only wisdom 
being, to be sure you have got at last what you have paid 
for.” 

“ I remember your having said that,” said May, thought- 
fully. 

“Yes; it was in correction of a great mistake you had 
made. May, when you were deploring the fate of some one 
who had contracted an unequal marriage. It was then that 
I ventured to tell you that what the world calls a misalliance 
is the one sure throw for a happy union.” 

“ But you did n’t convince me ! ” said May, hastily. 

“ Possibly not. T could not expect you to look on life 
from the same sad eminence I have climbed to ; still I think 
you understood me when I showed you that as air and 
sunlight are blessings which we enjoy without an effort, so 
affection, gained without sacrifice, elicits no high sense of 


MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS AT HER WRITING-TABLE. 139 


self-esteem, — none of that self-love which is but the reflex 
of real love.” 

“ Charles would, then, according to your theory, be emi- 
nently happy in marrying me, for, to all appeai*ance, the 
sacrifice w^ould be considerable,” said May, with a half-bitter 
laugh. 

“ Afy theory only applies to us^ dear May; as for men, 
they marry from a variety of motives, all prompted by some 
one or other feature of their selfishness : this one for fortune, 
that for family influence, the other because he wants a home, 
and so on.” 

“ And not for love at all? ” broke in May. 

“ Alas! dearest, the man who affords himself the pleasure 
of being in love is almost always unable to indulge in any 
other luxury. It is your tutor creature, there, like Layton, 
falls in love I ” 

May smiled, and turned away her head ; but the crimson 
flush of her cheek soon spread over her neck, and Mrs. 
Morris saw it. 

“Yes,” resumed she, as if reflecting aloud, ^‘love is the 
one sole dissipation of these student men, and, so to say, it 
runs through the dull-colored woof of their whole after-life, 
like a single gold thread glittering here and there at long 
intervals, and it gives them those dreamy fits of imaginative 
bliss which their quiet helpmates trustfully ascribe to some 
intellectual triumph. And it is in these the poor curate for- 
gets his sermon, and the village doctor his patient, thinking 
of some moss-rose he had plucked long ago ! ” 

“ Do you believe that. Loo?” asked the girl, eagerly. 

“ I know it, dear ; and what ’s more, it is. these very men 
are the best of husbands, the kindest and the tenderest. 
The perfume of an early love keeps the heart pure for many 
a long year after. Let us take Layton, for instance.” 

“ But why Mr. Layton? What do we know about him?” 

“ Not much, certainly ; but enough to illustrate our mean- 
ing. It is quite clear he is desperately in love.” 

“ With whom, pray? ” asked May. And her face became 
crimson as she spoke. 

“With a young lady who cannot speak of him without 
blushing,” said Mrs. Morris, calmly; and continued: “At 


140 


ONE OF THEM. 


first sight it does seem a very cruel thing to inspire such a 
man with a hopeless passion, yet, on second thought, we see 
what a stream of sunlight this early memory will throw over 
the whole bleak landscape of his after-life. You are his tor- 
ture now, but you will be his benefactor in many a dark hour 
of the dreary pilgrimage before him. There will be touches 
of tenderness in that ode he T1 send to the magazine ; there 
will be little spots of sweet melancholy in that village story ; 
men will never know whence they found their way into the 
curate’s heart. How little aware are they that there’s a 
corner there for old memories, embalmed amongst holier 
thoughts, — a withered rose-leaf between the pages of a 
prayer-book ! ” 

May again sighed, and with a tremor in the cadence that was 
almost a sob. 

“ So that,” resumed the other, in a more flippant voice, 
“you can forgive yourself for your present cruelty, by 
thinking of all the benefits you are to bestow hereafter, 
and all this without robbing your rightful lord of one 
affection, one solitary emotion, he has just claim to. And 
that, my sweet May, is more than you can do with your 
worldly wealth, for, against every check you send your 
banker, the cashier’s book will retain the record.” 

“ You only confuse me with all this,” said May, pettishly. 
“ I came for counsel.” 

“ And I have given you more, — I have given you consola- 
tion. I wish any one would be as generous with me! ” 

“ Oh, you are not angry with me! ” cried the girl, ear- 
nestly. 

“Angry! no, dearest, a passing moment of selfish regret 
is not anger, but it is of you^ not of me^ I would speak ; tell 
me everything. Has Charles spoken to you? ” 

“ Not a word. It may be indifference, or it may be that, 
in a sense of security about the future, he does not care to 
trouble himself.” 

“ Nay, scarcely that,” said the other, thoughtfully. 

“ Whatever the cause, you will own it is not very flattering 
to me,” said she, flushing deeply. 

“And Mr. Layton, — is he possessed of the same calm 
philosophy? Has he the same trustful reliance on destiny?” 


MRS. PKNTHONY MORRIS AT HER WRITING-TABLE. 141 

«aid Mrs. Morris, who, apparently examining the lace border 
of her handkerchief, yet stole a passing glance at the other’s 
face. 

“ How can you ask such a question? What is he to me, or 
I to him ? If he ever thought of me, besides, he must have 
remembered that the difference of station between us presents 
an insurmountable objection.” 

“ As if Love asked for anything better,” cried Mrs. Morris, 
laughingly. “Why, dearest, the passion thrives on insur- 
mountable objections, just the way certain fish swallow 
stones, not for nutriment, but to aid digestion by a diffi- 
culty. If he be the man I take him for, he must hug an 
obstacle to his heart as a Heaven-sent gift. Be frank 
with me. May,” said she, passing her arm affectionately 
round her waist; “confess honestly that he told you as 
much.” 

“ No; he never said that,” muttered she, half reluctantly. 
“What he said was that if disparity of condition was the 
only barrier between us, — if he were sure, or if he could 
even hope, that worldly success could open an avenue to 
my heart — ” 

‘ ‘ That he ’d go and be Prime Minister of England next 
session. 

‘ If doughty deeds 
My lady please ! * 

That was his tone, was it? Oh dear ! and I fancied the 
man had something new or original about him. Truth is, 
dearest, it is in love as in war, — there are nothing but the 
same old weapons to fight with, and we are lost or won just 
as our great-great-grandmothers were before us.” 

“ I wish you would be serious, Lucy,” said the girl, half 
rebukefully. 

“ Don’t you know me well enough by this time to per- 
ceive that I am never more thoughtful than in what seems 
my levity? and this on principle, too, for in the difficulties 
of life Fancy will occasionally suggest a remedy Reason 
had never hit upon, just as sportsmen will tell you that a 
wild, untrained spaniel will often fiush a bird a more trained 
dog had never ‘ marked.’ And now, to be most serious, 


142 


ONE OF THEM. 


you want to choose between the eligible man who is sure 
of you, and the most unequal suitor who despairs of his 
success. Is not that your case?” 

May shook her head dissentingly. 

“ Well, it is sufficiently near the issue for our purpose. 
Not so? Come, then. I’ll put it differently. You are bal- 
ancing whether to refuse your fortune to Charles Heath- 
cote or yourself to Alfred Layton ; and my advice is, 
do both.” 

May grew very pale, and, after an effort to say something, 
was silent. 

“ Yes, dearest, between the man who never pledges to pay 
and him who offers a bad promissory note, there is scant 
choice, and I ’d say, take neither.” 

“ I know how it will wound my dear old guardian, who 
loves me like a daughter,” began May. But the other 
broke in, — 

“ Oh ! there are scores of things one can do in life to 
oblige one’s friends, but marriage is not one of them. 
And then, bethink you. May, how little you have seen of 
the world ; and surely there is a wider choice before you 
than between a wearied lounger on half-pay and a poor 
tutor.” 

“Yes; a poor tutor if you will, but of a name and family 
the equal of my own,” said May, hastily, and with a dash 
of temper in the words. 

“Who says so? Who has told you that? ” 

“He himself. He told me that though there were some 
painful circumstances in his family history he would rather 
not enter upon, that, in point of station, he yielded to 
none in the rank of untitled gentry. He spoke of his father 
as a man of the very highest powers.” 

“Did he tell you what station he occupied at this 
moment? ” 

“No. And do you know it? ” 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Morris, gravely. 

“Will you not tell me, Lucy?” asked May, eagerly. 

“No; there is not any reason that I should. You have 
just said, ‘ What is Mr. Layton to me, or I to him ? ’ and in 
the face of such a confession why should I disparage him?” 


MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS AT HER WRITING-TABLE. 143 


“So, then, the confession would disparage him?” 

“It might.” 

“This reserve is not very generous towards me, I must 
say,” said the girl, passionately. 

“It is from generosity to you that I maintain it,” said 
the other, coldly. 

“But if I were to tell you that the knowledge interests- 
me deeply ; that by it I may possibly be guided in a most 
eventful decision ? ” 

“Oh, if you mean to say, ‘ Alfred Layton has asked me to 
marry him, and my reply depends upon what I may learn 
about his family and their station ’ — ” 

“No, no; I have not said that,” burst in May. 

“Not said, only implied it. Still, if it be what you desire 
me to entertain, I will have no concealments from you.” 

“I cannot buy your secret by a false pretence. Loo; there 
is no such compact as this between Layton and myself. 
Alfred asked me — ” 

“Alfred!” said Mrs. Morris, repeating the name after 
her, and with such a significance as sent all the color to the 
girl’s cheek and forehead, — “Alfred! And what did 
Alfred ask you?” 

scarcely know what I am saying,” cried May, as she 
covered her face with her hands. 

“Poor child!” cried Mrs. Morris, tenderly, “I can find 
my way into your heart without your breaking it. Do not 
cry, dearest. I know as well all that he said as if I had 
overheard him saying it! The world has just its two kinds 
of suitors, — the one who offers us marriage in a sort of grand 
princely fashion, and the other who, beseechingly proclaim- 
ing his utter unworthiness, asks us to wait, — to wait for an 
uncle or a stepmother’s death; to wait till he has got this 
place in the colonies, or that vicarage in Bleakshire; to wait 
till he has earned fame and honor, and Heaven knows what; 
till, in fact, he shall have won a wreath of laurel for his 
brows, and we have attained to a false plait for ours ! ” She 
paused a second or two to see if May would speak, but as 
she continued silent, Mrs. Morris went on: “There are few 
stock subjects people are more eloquent in condemning than 
what are called long engagements. There are some dozen 


144 


ONE OF THEM. 


of easy platitudes that every one has by heart on this theme ; 
and yet, if the truth were to be told, it is the waiting is the 
best of it, — the marriage is the mistake ! That faint little 
flickering hope that lighted us on for years and years is ex- 
tinguished at the church door, and never relighted after; so 
that. May, my advice to you is, never contract a long en- 
gagement until you have made up your mind not to marry 
at the end of it ! My poor, poor child ! why are you sob- 
bing so bitterly? Surely I have said nothing to cause you 
sorrow ? ” 

May turned away without speaking, but her heaving 
shoulders betrayed how intensely she was weeping. 

“May I see him, — may I speak with him, May?” said 
Mrs. Morris, drawing her arm affectionately around her 
waist. 

“To what end, — with what view?” said the girl, sud- 
denly and almost haughtily. 

“Now that you ask me in that tone. May, I scarcely 
know. I suppose I meant to show him how inconsiderate, 
how impossible his hopes were ; that there was nothing in 
his station or prospects that could warrant this presumption. 
I suppose I had something of this sort on my mind, but I 
own to you now, your haughty glance has completely routed 
all my wise resolutions.” 

“Perhaps you speculated on the influence of that peculiar 
knowledge of his family history you appear to be possessed 
of?” said May, with some pique. 

“Perhaps so,” was the dry rejoinder. 

“And which you do not mean to confide to me ? ” said the 
girl, proudly. 

“I have not said so. So long as you maintained that Mr. 
Layton was to you nothing beyond a mere acquaintance, my 
secret, as you have so grandly called it, might very well 
rest in my own keeping. If, however, the time were come 
that he should occupy a very different place in your 
regard — ” 

“Instead of saying ‘ were come,’ Loo, just say, ‘ If the 
time might come,’ ” said May, timidly. 

“Well, then, ‘ if the time might come,’ I might tell all 
that I know about him.” 


MRS. PENTHONY MORRIS AT HER WRITING-TABLE. 145 


“But then it might be too late. I mean, that it might 
come when it could only grieve, and not guide me. ” 

“Oh, if I thought that^ you should never know it! Be 
assured of one thing. May: no one ever less warred against 
the inevitable than myself. When I read, ‘ No passage 
this way,’ I never hesitate about seeking another road.” 

“And I mean to go mine, and without a guide either! ” 
said May, moving towards the door. 

“So I perceived some time back,” was the dry reply of 
Mrs. Morris, as she busied herself with the papers before 
her. 

“Good-night, dear, and forgive my interruption,” said 
May, opening the door. 

“Good-night, and delightful dreams to you,” said Mrs. 
Morris, in her own most silvery accents. And May was 
gone. 

The door had not well closed when Mrs. Morris was 
again, pen in hand, glancing rapidly over what she had 
written, to catch up the clew. This was quickly accom- 
plished, and she wrote away rapidly. It is not “in our 
brief” to read that letter; nor would it be “evidence;” 
enough, then, that we say it was one of those light, spark- 
ling little epistles which are thrown off in close confidence, 
and in which the writer fearlessly touches any theme that 
offers. She sketched off the Heathcotes with a few easy 
graphic touches, giving a very pleasing portraiture of May 
herself, ending with these words : — 

“ Add to all these attractions a large estate and a considerable 
sum in the funds, and then say, dear pa, is not this what Ludlow had 
so long been looking for ? I am well aware of his pleasant habit of 
believing nothing, nor any one, so that you must begin by referring 
him to Doctors’ Commons, where he can see the will. General 
Leslie died in 18 — , and left Sir William Heathcote sole executor. 
When fully satisfied on the money question, you can learn anything 
further from me that you wish; one thing only I stipulate for, and 
that is, to hold no correspondence myself with L. Of course, like as 
in everything else, he ’ll not put any faith in this resolution ; but 
time will teach him at last. The negotiation must be confided to 
your own hands. Do not employ Collier nor any one else. Be 
secret, and be speedy, for I plainly perceive the young lady will 
marry some one immediately after learning a disappointment now 


146 


ONE OF THEM. 


impending. Remember, my own conditions are : all the letters, and 
that we meet as utter strangers. I ask nothing more, I will accept 
nothing less. As regards Clara, he cannot, I suspect, make any diffi- 
culty ; but that may be a question for ulterior consideration. Clara 
is growing up pretty, but has lost all her spirits, and will, in a few 
months more, look every day of her real age. I am sadly vexed 
about this ; but it comes into the long category of the things to be 
endured.” 

The letter wound up with some little light and flippant 
allusions to her father’s complaints about political in- 
gratitude : — 

“ I really do forget, dear papa, which are our friends ; but surely 
no party would refuse your application for a moderate employment. 
The only creature I know personally amongst them is the Colonial 
Sec. , and he says, ‘ They ’ve left me nothing to give but the bishop, 
rics.’ Better that, perhaps, than nothing ; but could you manage to 
accept one? that is the question. There is an Irish M.P. here — a 
certain O’Shea — who tells me there are a variety of things to give 
in the West Indies, with what he calls wonderful pickings — mean- 
ing, I suppose, stealings. Why not look for one of these ? I ’ll 
question my friend the Member more closely, and give you the 
result. 

“ It was odd enough, a few months ago, O’S., never suspecting to 
whom he was talking, said, ‘ There was an old fellow in Ireland, a 
certain Nick Holmes, could tell more of Government rogueries and 
rascalities than any man living ; and if I were he, I ’d make them 
give me the first good thing vacant, or I ’d speak out.’ Dear papa, 
having made so much out of silence, is it not worth while to think 
how much eloquence might be worth ? 

“ Your affectionate daughter. 


“Lucy M.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 


A SICK-ROOM. 

It was a severe night of early winter, — one of those stormy 
intervals in which Italy seems to assume all the rigors of 
some northern land, with an impetuosity derived from her 
own more excitable latitude. The rain beat against the 
windows with distinct and separate plashes, and the wind 
rattled and shook the strong walls with a violence that 
seemed irresistible. 

In a large old room of a very old palace at Lucca, Alfred 
Layton walked to and fro, stopping every now and then to 
listen to some heightened effort of the gale without, and 
then resuming his lonely saunter. There were two large 
and richly ornamented fireplaces, and in one of them a small 
fire was burning, and close to this stood a table with a 
shaded lamp, and by these frail lights a little brightness was 
shed over this portion of the vast chamber, while the 
remainder was shrouded in deep shadow. As the fitful 
flashes of the wood-fire shone from time to time on the walls, 
little glimpses might be caught of a much-faded tapestry, 
representing some scenes from the “^neid;” but on none 
of these did Layton turn an eye nor bestow a thought, for 
he was deep in sorrowful reflections of his own, — cares too 
heavy to admit of any passing distraction. He was alone, 
for Agincourt had gone to spend the day at the “Caprini,” 
whither Alfred would have accompanied him but for a letter 
which the morning’s post had brought to his hands, and 
whose contents had overwhelmed him with sorrow. 

It was from his mother, written from a sick-bed, and in 
a hand that betokened the most extreme debility. And oh! 
what intense expression there is in these weak and waver- 
ing lines, wherein the letters seemed to vibrate still with the 


148 


ONE OF THEM. 


tremulous motion of the fevered fingers ! — what a deep 
significance do we attach to every word thus written! till 
at length, possessed of every syllable and every stop, we 
conjure up the scene where all was written, and feel as 
though we heard the hurried breathing of the sick-room. 
She had put off writing week after week, but now could 
defer no longer. It was upwards of two months since his 
father had left her to go to Dublin, and, from the day he 
went, she had never heard from him. A paragraph, how- 
ever, in a morning paper, though not giving his name, 
unmistakably alluded to him as one who had grievously 
fallen from the high and honorable station he had once occu- 
pied, and spoke of the lamentable reverse that should show 
such a man in the dock of a police-court on the charge of 
insulting and libelling a public character in a ribald hand- 
bill. The prisoner was so hopelessly sunk in drunkenness, 
it added, that he was removed from the court, and the exam- 
ination postponed. 

By selling one by one the little articles of furniture she 
had, she contrived, hitherto, to eke out a wretched support, 
and it was only when at last these miserable resources had 
utterly failed her that she was driven to grieve her son with 
her sad story. Nor was the least touching part of her 
troubles that in which she spoke of her straits to avoid 
being considered an object of charity by her neighbors. 
The very fact of the rector having overpaid for a few books 
he had purchased made her discontinue to send him others, 
so sensitive had misery made her. And yet, strangely 
enough, there did not exist the same repugnance to accept 
of little favors and trifling kindnesses from the poor people 
about her, of whom she spoke with a deep and affectionate 
gratitude. Her whole heart was, however, full of one 
thought and one hope, — to see her dear son before she 
died. It was a last wish, and she felt as though indulging 
it had given her the energy which had prolonged her life. 
Doubts would cross her mind from time to time if it were 
possible for him to come; if he could be so far his own 
master as to be able to hasten to her; and even if doing so, 
he could be yet in time ; but all these would give way before 
the strength of her hope. 


A SICK-ROOM. 


149 


“ That I should see you beside my bed, — that you should hold 
my hand as I go hence, — will be happiness enough to requite me 
for much sorrow 1 ” wrote she. “ But if this may not be, and that 
we are to meet no more here, never forget that in my last prayer 
your name was mingled, and that when I entreated forgiveness for 
myself, I implored a blessing for you ! ” 

“That letter was written on the Monday before ; and where 
had he been on that same Monday evening?” asked he of 
himself. “How had he been occupied in those same hours 
when she was writing this? Yes, that evening he was 
seated beside May Leslie at the piano, while she played 
and sang for him. They had been talking of German song- 
writers, and she was recalling here and there such snatches 
of Uhland and Schiller as she could remember; while Clara, 
leaning over the back of his chair,- was muttering the words 
when May forgot them, and in an accent the purest and 
truest. What a happy hour was that to him ! and to her 
how wretched, how inexpressibly wretched, as, alone and 
friendless, she wrote those faint lines! ” 

Poor Layton felt very bitterly the thought that, while he 
was living in an easy enjoyment of life, his mother, whom 
he loved dearly, should be in deep want and suffering. 

In the easy carelessness of a disposition inherited from his 
father, he had latterly been spending money far too freely. 
His constant visits to Marlia required a horse, and then, 
with all a poor man’s dread to be thought poor, he was ten 
times more liberal to servants than was called for, and even 
too ready to join in whatever involved cost or expense. 
Latterly, too, he had lost at play; small sums, to be sure, 
but they were the small sums of a small exchequer, and they 
occurred every day, for at the game of pool poor Layton’s 
ball was always the first on the retired list; and the terrible 
Mr. O’Shea, who observed a sort of reserve with Charles 
Heathcote, made no scruple of employing sharp practice 
with the tutor. 

He emptied the contents of his purse on the table, and 
found that all his worldly wealth was a trifle over fifteen 
pounds, and of this he was indebted to Charles Heathcote 
some three or four, — the losses of his last evening at the 
“Caprini.” What was to be done? A journey to Ireland 


150 


ONE OF THEM. 


would cost fully the double of all he possessed, not to say 
that, once there, he would require means. So little was he 
given to habits of personal indulgence, that he had nothing 
— absolutely nothing — to dispose of save his watch, and 
that was of little value ; a few books, indeed, he possessed, 
but their worth, even if he could obtain it, would have been 
of no service. With these embarrassing thoughts of his 
poverty came also others, scarcely less fraught with diffi- 
culty. How should he relieve himself of his charge of Lord 
Agincourt? There would be no time to write to his guar- 
dians and receive their reply. He could not leave the boy 
in Italy ; nor dare he, without the consent of his relatives, 
take him back to England. How to meet these difficulties 
he knew not, and time was pressing, — every hour of 
moment to him. Was there one, even one, whose counsel 
he could ask, or whose assistance he could bespeak? He 
ran over the names of those around him, but against each, 
in turn, some insuperable objection presented itself. There 
possibly had been a time he might have had recourse to Sir 
William, frankly owning how he was circumstanced, and 
bespeaking his aid for the moment; but of late the old. Bar- 
onet’s manner towards him had been more cold and reserved 
than at first, — studiously courteous, it is true, but a cour- 
tesy that excluded intimacy. As to Charles, they had never 
been really friendly together, and yet there was a familiarity 
between them that made a better understanding more remote 
than ever. 

While he revolved all these troubles in his head, he walked 
up and down his room with the feverish impatience of one 
to whom rest was torture. At last, even the house seemed 
too narrow for his restless spirit, and, taking his hat, he 
went out, careless of the swooping rain, nor mindful of the 
cold and cutting wind as it sw^ept down from the last spur 
of the Apennines. As the chill rain drenched him, there 
seemed almost a sense of relief in the substitution of a 
bodily suffering to the fever that burned in his brain, and 
seeking out the bleakest part of the old ramparts, he stood 
breasting the storm, which had now increased to a perfect 
hurricane. 

“The rain cannot beat upon one more friendless and for- 


A SICK-ROOM. 


151 


lorn,” muttered he, as he stood shivering there; the strange 
fascination of misery suggesting a sort of bastard heroism 
to his spirit. “The humblest peasant in that dreary Cam- 
pagna has more of sympathy and kindness than I have. He 
has those poor as himself and powerless to aid, but willing 
to befriend him.” There was ever in his days of depres- 
sion a fierce revolt in his nature against the position he 
occupied in the world. The acceptance on sufferance, the 
recognition accorded to his pupil being his only claim to 
attention, were painful wounds to a haughty temperament, 
and, with the ingenuity of a self-tormentor, he ascribed every 
reverse he met in life to his false position. He accepted it, 
no doubt, to be able to help those who had made such sacri- 
fices for him, and yet even in this it was a failure. There 
lay his poor mother, dying of very want, in actual destitu- 
tion, and he could not help — could not even be with her ! 

Though his wet clothes, now soaked with half-frozen 
drift, sent a deadly chill through him, the fever of his blood 
rendered him unconscious of it, and his burning brain 
seemed to defy the storm, while in the wild raging of the 
elements he caught up a sort of excitement that sustained 
him. For more than two hours he wandered about in that 
half-frenzied state, and at length, benumbed and exhausted, 
he turned homeward. To his surprise, he perceived, as he 
drew near, that the windows were all alight, and a red glow 
of a large wood-fire sent its mellow glare across the street; 
but greater was his astonishment on entering to see the tall 
figure of a man stretched at full length on three chairs before 
the fire, fast asleep, a carpet-bag and a travelling-cloak 
beside him. 

Never was Layton less disposed to see a stranger and 
play the host to any one, and he shook the sleeper’s shoulder 
in a fashion that speedily awoke him ; who, starting up with 
a bound, cried out, “Well, Britisher, I must say this is a 
kinder droll way to welcome a friend.” 

“Oh, Colonel, is it you?” said Layton. “Pray forgive 
my rudeness. . But coming in as I did, without expecting 
any one, wet and somewhat tired — ” He stopped and 
looked vacantly about him, as though not clearly remember- 
ing where he was. 


152 


ONE OF THEM. 


Quackinboss had, however, been keenly examining him 
while he spoke, and marked in his wildly excited eyes and 
flushed cheeks the signs of some high excitement. “You 
ain’t noways right; you ’re wet through and cold, besides,” 
said he, taking his hand in both his own. “Do you feel 
ill?” 

“Yes; that is — I feel as if — I — had — lost my way,” 
muttered he, with long pauses between the words. 

“There 's nothing like bed and a sound sleep for that,” 
said the other, gently; while, taking Layton’s arm, he led 
him quietly along towards the half-open door of his bedroom. 
Passively surrendering himself to the other’s care, Alfred 
made no resistance to all he dictated, and, removing his 
dripping clothes, he got into bed. 

“It is here the most pain is now,” said he, placing his 
palm on his temple, — “here, and inside my head.” 

“I wish I could talk to that servant of yours; he don’t 
seem a very bright sort of creetur, but I could make him of 
use.” With this muttered remark, Quackinboss walked back 
into the sitting-room, where Layton’s man was' now extin- 
guishing the lights and the fire. “You have to keep that 
fire in, T say — fire — great fire — hot water. Understand 
me? ” 

“ ’Strissimo! si,” said the Tuscan, bowing courteously. 

“Well, then, do you fetch some lemons — lemons. You 
know lemons, don’t you?” 

A shrug was the unhappy reply. 

“Lemong — lemong ! You know them ? ” 

“Limoni! oh si.” And he made the sign of squeezing 
them; and then, hastening out of the room, he speedily reap- 
peared with lemons and other necessaries to concoct a drink. 

“That’s it, — bravo, that’s it! Brew it right hot, my 
worthy fellow,” said Quackinboss, with a gesture that im- 
plied the water was to be boiled immediately. He now re- 
turned to Layton, whom he found sitting up in the bed, talk- 
ing rapidly to himself, but with all the distinctness of one 
perfectly collected. 

“By Marseilles I could reach Paris on Tuesday night, and 
London on Wednesday. Is n’t there a daily packet for 
Genoa?” asked he, as Quackinboss entered. 


A SICK-ROOM. 


15S 


“Well, I guess there ’s more than ’s good of ’em,” drawled 
out the other; “ill-found, ill-manned, dirty craft as ever I 
put foot in ! ” 

“Yes, but they leave every day, don’t they? ” asked Lay- 
ton, impatiently. 

I ain t posted up in their doin’s, nor I don’t want to^ 
that ’s a fact. We went ashore with a calm sea and a full 
moon, coming up from Civita-Vecchia — ” 



Layton burst into a laugh at the strange pronunciation, 
— a wild, unearthly sort of laugh that ended in a low, faint 
sigh, after which he lay back like one exhausted. 

“I ’m a-goin’ to take a little blood from you, I am! ” said 
Quackinboss, producing a lancet which, from its shape and 
size, seemed more conversant with horse than human 
practice. 

“I ’ll not be bled ! How am I to travel a journey of seven, 
eight, or ten days and nights, if I ’m bled?” cried the sick 
man, angrily. 


154 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ I Ve got to bleed you, and I ’ll do it! ” said Quackinboss, 
as, taking out his handkerchief, he tore a long strip, like a 
ribbon, from its border. 

“Francesco — Francesco!’* screamed out Layton, wildly, 
“take this man away; he has no right to be here. I’ll not 
endure it. Leave me — go — leave me ! ” screamed he, 
angrily. 

There was that peculiar something about the look of 
Quackinboss that assured Francesco it would be as well not 
to meddle with him ; and, like all his countrymen, he was 
quick to read an expression and profit by his knowledge. 
Even to the sick man, too, did the influence extend, and the 
determinate, purpose-like tone of his manner enforced obe- 
dience without even an effort. 

“I was mystery-man for three years among the Choctaws,” 
said he, as he bound up Layton’s arm, “and I ’ll yield to no 
one livin’ how to treat a swamp fever, and that ’s exactly 
what you’ve got.” While the blood trickled from the open 
vein he continued to talk on in the same strain. “I ’ve seen 
a red man anoint hisself all over with oil, and set fire to it, 
and then another stood by with a great blanket to wrap him 
up afore he was more than singed, and it always succeeded 
in stoppin’ the fever. It brought it out to the surface like. 
Howsomever, it’s only an Indian’s fixin’, and I don’t like 
it with a white man. How d’ ye feel now, — better? ” 

A muttering, dissatisfied sound, but half articulate, seemed 
to say, “No better.” 

“It ain’t to be expected yet,” said Quackinboss. “Lie 
down, and be quiet a bit.” 

Although the first effect of the bleeding seemed to calm the 
sufferer and arrest his fever, the symptoms of the malady 
came back in full force afterwards, and, ere day broke, he 
was raving wildly. At one moment he fancied he was at 
work in the laboratory with his father, and he ran over great 
calculations of mental arithmetic with a marvellous volu- 
bility; then he was back in his chambers at Trinity, but he 
could not find his books ; they were gone — lost — no, not 
lost, he suddenly remembered that he had sold them — sold 
them to send a pittance to his poor sick mother. “It ’s a 
sad story, every part of it,” whispered he in Quackinboss’s 


A SICK-ROOM. 


155 


«ar, while he clutched him closely with his hands. “It was 
a great man was lost, mark you ; and in a great shipwreck 
even the fragments of the wreck work sad destruction, and, 
of course, none will say a word for him. But remember, 
sir, I am his son, and will not hear a syllable against him, 
from you nor any other.” From this he abruptly broke off 
to speak of O’Shea, and his late altercation with him. “I 
waited at home all the morning for him, and at last got a 
note to say that he had forgotten to tell me of an appoint- 
ment he had made to ride out with Miss Leslie, but he ’ll be 
punctual to the hour to-morrow. So it ’s better as it is, 
Colonel, for you ’ll be here, and can act as my friend, — • 
won’t you? Your countrymen understand all these sort of 
things so well. And then, if I be called away suddenly 
to England, don’t tell them,” whispered he, mysteriously, — 
“don’t tell them at the villa whither I ’ve gone. They know 
nothing of me nor of my family; never heard of my ruined 
father, nor my poor, sick, destitute mother, dying of actual 
want, — think of that, — while I was playing the man of 
fortune here, affecting every extravagance, — yes, it was you 
yourself said so ; I overheard you in the garden, asking why 
or how was it, with such ample means, I would become a 
tutor.” 

It was not alone that these words were uttered in a calm 
and collected tone, but they actually recalled to the Ameri- 
can a remark he had once made about Layton. “Well,” 
said he, as if some apology was called for, “it warn’t any 
business of mine, but I was sorry to see it.” 

“But you didn’t know — you couldn’t know,” cried the 
other, eagerly, “that I had no choice; my health was break- 
ing. I had overworked my head; I could n’t go on. Have 
you ever tried what it is to read ten hours a day? Answer 
me that.” 

“No; but I’ve been afoot sixteen out of the twenty- 
four for weeks together, on an Indian trail; and that’s 
con-siderable worse, I take it.” 

“Who cares for mere fatigue of body?” said Layton, 
contemptuously. 

“And who says it’s mere fatigue of body?” rejoined the 
other, “when every sense a man has is strained and stretched 


156 


ONE OF THEM. 


to breaking his ear to the earth, and his eyes rangin’ over 
the swell of the prairies, till his brain aches with the strong 
effort; for, mark ye. Choctaws isn’t Pawnees: they’re on 
you with a swoop, just like a white squall in the summer 
time.” There is no saying how far Quackinboss, notwith- 
standing all his boasted skill in physic, might have been 
tempted to talk on about a theme he loved so well, when he 
was suddenly admonished, by the expression of Layton’s 
face, that the sick man was utterly unconscious of all around 
him. The countenance had assumed that peculiar stern and 
stolid gaze which is so markedly the characteristic of an 
affected brain. 

“There,” muttered Quackinboss to himself, “I ’ve been 
a-talkin’ all this time to a poor creetur as is ravin’ mad ; all 
I’ve been doin’ is to make him worse.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


A MASTER AND MAN. 

Who owns the smart tandem that trips along so flippantly 
over the slightly frosted road from the Bagni towards Lucca? 
What genius, cunning in horseflesh, put that spicy pair to- 
gether, perfect matches as they are in all but color, for the 
wheeler is a blood chestnut, and the leader a bright gray, 
with bone and substance enough for hunters? They have a 
sort of lithe and wiry action that reminds one of the Hun- 
garian breed, and so, indeed, a certain jaunty carriage of the 
head, and half wild-looking expression of eye, bespeak them. 
The high dog-cart, however, is unmistakably English, as well 
as the harness, with its massive mountings and broad straps. 
What an air of mingled elegance and solidity pervades the 
entire ! It is, as it were, all that such an equipage can pre- 
tend to compass, — lightness, speed, and a dash of sporting 
significance being its chief characteristics. 

It is not necessary to present you to the portly gentleman 
who holds the ribbons, all encased as he is in box-coats and 
railway wrappers ; you can still distinguish Mr. O’Shea, and 
as unmistakably recognize his man Joe beside him. The 
morning is sharp, clear, and frosty, but so perfectly still 
that the blue smoke of Mr. O’Shea’s cigar hangs floating in 
the air behind him, as the nimble nags spin along at some- 
thing slightly above thirteen miles an hour. Joe, too, solaces 
himself with the bland weed, but in more primitive fashion, 
from a short “ dudeen ” of native origin : his hat is pressed 
down firmly over his brows, and his hands, even to the 
wrists, deeply encased in his pockets, for Joe, be it owned, 
is less amply supplied with woollen comforts than his master, 
and feels the morning sharp. 


158 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ Now, I call this a very neat turn-out; the sort of thing 
a man might not be ashamed to tool along through any town 
in Europe,” said O’Shea. 

“You might show it in Sackville Street!” said Joe, 
proudly. 

“ Sackville Street?” rejoined O’Shea, in an accent of con- 
temptuous derision. “ Is there any use, I wonder, in bring- 
ing you all over the world ? ” 

“ There is not,” said the other, in his most dogged 
manner. 

“If there was,” continued O’Shea, “you’d know that 
Dublin had no place amongst the great cities of Europe, — 
that nobody went there, — none so much as spoke of it. I ’d 
just as soon talk of Macroom in good society.” 

“ And why would n’t you talk of Macroom? What’s the 
shame in it?” asked the inexorable Joe. 

“ There would be just the same shame as if I was to bring 
you along with me when I was asked out to dinner ! ” 

“You might do worse,” was the dry reply. 

'“I’m curious to hear how.” 

“Troth, you might; and easy too,” said Joe, senten- 
tiously. 

These slight passages did not seem to invite conversation, 
and so, for above a mile or two, nothing was spoken on 
either side. At last Mr. O’Shea said, — 

“I think that gray horse has picked up a stone; he goes 
tenderly near side.” 

“ He does not ; he goes as well as you do,” was Joe’s 
answer. 

“You’re as blind as a bat, or you’d see he goes lame,” 
said O’Shea, drawing up. 

“ There, he ’s thrown it now ; it w^as only a bit of a pebble,” 
said Joe, as though the victory was still on his side. 

“Upon my life, I wonder why I keep you at all,” burst 
out O’Shea, angrily. 

“ So do I ; and I wonder more why I sta3^” 

‘ ‘ Does it ever occur to you to guess why ? ” 

“No; never.” 

“ It has nothing to say to being well fed, well lodged, well 
paid, and well cared for? ” 


A MASTER AND MAN. 


159 


“No; it has not,” said Joe, gravely. “The bit I ate, I 
get how I can ; these is my own clothes, and sorrow six- 
pence I seen o* your money since last Christmas.” 

“Get down, — get down on the road this instant. You 
shall never sit another mile beside me.” 

“ I will not get down. Why would I, in a strange coun- 
thry, and not a farthin’ in my pocket ! ” 

“ Have a civil tongue, then, and don’t provoke me to turn 
you adrift on the world.” 

“ I don’t want to provoke you.” 

“What beastly stuff is that you are smoking?” said 
O’Shea, as a whole cloud from Joe’s pipe came wafted 
across him. 

“’T is n’t bastely at all. I took it out of your own bag 
this morning.” 

“ Not out of the antelope’s skin? ” asked O’Shea, eagerly. 

“ Yes ; out of the hairy bag with the little hoofs on it.” 

A loud burst of laughter was O’Shea’s reply, and for 
several seconds he could not control his mirth. 

“Do you know what you’re smoking! It’s Russian 
camomile 1 ” 

“ Maybe it is.” 

“ I got it to make a bitter mixture.” 

“ It ’s bitther, sure enough, but it has a notion of tobacco 
too.” 

O’Shea again laughed out, and longer than before. 

“ It ’s just a chance that you were n’t poisoned,” said he, 
at last. “ Here — here ’s a cigar for you, and a real Cuban, 
too, one that young Heathcote never fancied would grace 
your lips.” 

Joe accepted the boon without acknowledgment; indeed, 
he scrutinized the gift with an air of half-depreciation. 

“ You don’t seem to think much of a cigar,” said O’Shea, 
testily. 

“ When I can get no betther,” said Joe, biting off the end. 

O’Shea frowned and turned away. It was evident that he 
had some difficulty in controlling himself, but he succeeded, 
and was silent. The effort, hpwever, could not be sustained 
very long, and at last he said, but in a slow and measured 
tone, — 


160 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ Shall I tell you a home-truth, Master Joe? ” 

“ Yes, if you like.” 

“ It is this, then : it is that same ungracious and ungrate- 
ful way with which you, and every one like you in Ireland, 
receive benefits, disgusts every stranger.” 

“Benefits!” 

“ Yes, benefits, — I said benefits.” 

“Sure, what’s our own isn’t benefits,” rejoined Joe, 
calmly. 

“ Your own? May I ask if the contents of that bag were 
your own? ” 

“ ’Tis at the devil I ’m wishin’ it now,” said Joe, putting 
his hand on his stomach. “ ’Tis tearing me to pieces, it is, 
bad luck to it I ” 

O’Shea was angry, but such was the rueful expression of 
Joe’s face that he laughed out again. 

“Now he’s goin’ lame if you like!” cried Joe, with a 
tone of triumph that said, “ All the mishaps are not on 
my side.” 

O’Shea pulled up, and knowing, probably, the utter in- 
utility of employing Joe at such a moment, got down himself 
to see what was amiss. 

“ No, it’s the off leg,” cried Joe, as his master was care- 
fully examining the near one. 

I suppose he must have touched the frog on a sharp 
stone,” said O’Shea, after a long and fruitless exploration. 

“I don’t think so,” said .Toe; “ ’t is more like to be a 
dizaze of the bone, — one of thim dizazes of the fetlock 
that ’s never cured.” 

A deeply uttered malediction was O’Shea’s answer to the 
pleasant prediction. 

“ I never see one of them recover,” resumed Joe, who 
saw his advantage; “but the baste will do many a day’s 
slow work — in a cart.” 

“Hold your prate, and be hanged to you!” muttered 
O’Shea, as, between anger and stooping, he was threatened 
with a small apoplexy. “ Move them on gently for a few 
yards, till I get a look at him.” 

Joe leisurely moved into his master’s place, and bestowed 
the rug very comfortably around his legs. This done, with 


A MASTER AND MAN. 


161 


a degree of detail and delay that seemed almost intended to 
irritate, he next slowly arranged the reins in his fingers, and 
then, with a jerk of his whip-hand, sending out the lash in a 
variety of curves, he brought the whipcord down on the 
leader with a “nip” that made him plunge, while the 
wheeler, understanding the hint, started off at full swing. 
So sudden and unexpected was the start, that O’Shea had 
barely time to spring out of the way to escape the wheel. 
Before, indeed, he had thoroughly recovered his footing, 
Joe had swept past a short turning of the road, leaving 
nothing but a light train of dust to mark his course. 

“Stop! pull up! stop! confound you!” cried O’Shea, 
with other little expletives that print is not called on to re- 
peat, and then, boiling with passion, he set off in pursuit. 
When he had gained the angle of the road, it was only to 
catch one look at his equipage as it disappeared in the dis- 
tance ; the road, dipping suddenly, showed him little more 
than a torso of the “ faithful Joe,” diminishing rapidly to a 
head, and then vanishing entirely. 

“ What a scoundrel ! what a rascal ! ” cried O’Shea, as he 
wiped his forehead ; and then, wfith his fist clenched and up- 
raised, “registered a vow^,” as Mr. O’Connell used to say, 
of unlimited vengeance. If this true history does not record 
the full measure of the heart-devouring anger of O’Shea, it 
is not from any sense of its being undeserved or unreason- 
able, for, after all, worthy reader, it might have pushed even 
your patience to have been left standing, of a sharp Novem- 
ber morning, on a lonely road, while your carriage was 
driven off by an insolent “flunkey.” 

As he was about midway between the Bagni and the town 
of Lucca, to which he was bound, he half hesitated whether 
to go on or to return. There was shame in either course, — 
shame in going back to recount his misadventure; shame 
in having to call Joe to a reckoning in Lucca before a crowd 
of strangers, and that vile population of the stable-yard, with 
which, doubtless, Joe would have achieved popularity before 
his master could arrive. 

Of a verity the situation was embarrassing, and in his 
muttered comments upon it might be read how thoroughly 
his mind took in every phase of its difficulty. “How they ’ll 

11 


162 


ONE OF THEM. 


laugh at me up at the Villa! It T^ill last Sir William for 
the winter; he’ll soon hear how I won the trap from his 
son, and he ’ll be ready with the old saw, ‘ Ah! ill got, ill 
gone! ’ How young Heathcote will enjoy it; and the widow, 
— if she be a widow, — won’t she caricature me, as I stand 
halloaing out after the runaway rascal? Very hard to get 
out of all this ridicule without something serious to cover 
it. That ’s the only way to get out of a laughable adven- 
ture; so. Master Layton, it’s all the worse for you this 
morning.” In this train of thought was he deeply immersed 
as a peasant drove past in his light “calesina.” O’Shea 
quickly hailed the man, and bargained with him for a seat 
to Lucca. 

Six weary miles of a jolting vehicle did not contribute 
much to restore his calm of mind, and it was in a perfect 
frenzy of anger he walked into the inn-yard, where he saw 
his carriage now standing. In the stables his horses stood, 
sheeted up, but still dirty and travel-stained. Joe was 
absent. “ He had been there five minutes ago ; he was not an 
instant gone ; he had never left his horses till now ; taken such 
care of them, — watered, fed, groomed, and clothed them ; 
he was a treasure, — there was not his like to be found.” 
These, and suchlike, were the eulogies universally bestowed 
by the stable constituency upon one whom O’Shea was at the 
same time consigning in every form to the infernal gods! 
The grooms and helpers wore a half grin on their faces as 
he passed out, and again he muttered, “All the worse for 
you^ Layton; ?/o?*’ll have to pay the reckoning.” 

He was not long in finding the Barsotti Palace, where 
Layton lodged; an old tumble-down place it was, with a 
grass-grown, mildewed court, and some fractured statues, 
green with damp, around it. The porter, indicating with a 
gesture of his thumb where the stranger lived, left O’Shea to 
plod up the stairs alone. 

It was strange enough that it should then have occurred to 
him, for the first time, that he had no definite idea about 
what he was coming for. Layton and he had, it is true, some 
words, and Layton had given him time and place to con- 
tinue the theme; but in what way? To make Layton reiter- 
ate in cold blood something he might have uttered in anger, 


A MASTER AND MAN. 


163 


and would probably retract, if called upon courteously, — 
this would be very poor policy. While, on the other hand, 
to permit him to insinuate anything on the score of his 
success at play might be even worse again. It was a case 
for very nice management, and so O’Shea thought, as, after 
arriving at a door bearing Layton’s name on a visiting- 
card, he took a turn in the lobby to consider his course of 
proceeding. The more he thought over it, the more difficult 
he found it; in fact, at last he saw it to be one of those 
cases in which the eventuality alone can decide the line to 
take, and so he gave a vigorous pull at the bell, determined 
to begin the campaign at once. 

The door was not opened immediately, and he repeated 
his summons still louder. Scarcely had the rope quitted his 
hand, however, when a heavy bolt was drawn back, the door 
was thrown wide, and a tall athletic man, in shirt and trou- 
sers, stood before him. 

“Well, stranger, you arn’t much distressed with patience, 
that’s a fact,” said a strongly nasal accent, while the 
speaker gave a look of very fierce defiance at the visitor. 

“Am I speaking to Colonel Quackinboss ? ” asked 
O’Shea, in some surprise. 

“Well, sir, if it ain’t him, it’s some one in his skin, I’m 
thinkin’.” 

“My visit was to Mr. Layton,” said the other, stiffiy. 
“Is he at home? ” 

“Yes, sir; but he 's not a-goin’ to see you.” 

“I came here by his appointment.” 

“That don’t change matters a red cent, stranger; and as 
I said a’ready, he ain’t a-goin’ to see you.” 

“Oh, then I ’m to understand that he has placed himself 
in your hands? You assume to act for him? ” said O’Shea, 
stiffiy. 

“Well, if you like to take it from that platform, I ’ll offer 
no objection,” said Quackinboss, gravely. 

“Am I, or am I not, to regard you as a friend on this 
occasion?” said O’Shea, authoritatively. 

“I ’ll tell you a secret, stranger; you ’ll not be your own 
friend if you don’t speak to me in another tone of voice. 
I ain’t used to be halloaed at, I ain’t.” 


164 


ONE OF THEM. 


“One thing at a time, sir,” said O’Shea. “When I have 
finished the business which brought me here, I shall be per- 
fectly at your service.” 

“Now I call that talkin’ reasonable. Step inside, sir, and 
take a seat,” said Quackinboss, whose manner was now as 
calm as possible. 

Whatever irritation O’Shea really felt, he contrived to 
subdue it in appearance, as he followed the other into the 
room. 

O’Shea was not so deficient in tact that he could not see 
his best mode of dealing with the American was to proceed 
with every courtesy and deference, and so, as he seated 
himself opposite him, he mentioned the reason of his coming 
there without anything like temper, and stated that from a 
slight altercation such a difference arose as required either 
an explanation or a meeting. 

“He can’t go a-shooting with you, stranger; he ’s struck 
dov/n this morning,” said Quackinboss, gravely, as the other 
finished. 

“Do you mean he ’s ill? ” 

“I s’pose I do, when I said he was down, sir.” 

“This is most unfortunate,” broke in O’Shea. “My 
duties as a public man require my being in England next 
week. I hoped to have settled this little matter before my 
departure. I see nothing for it but to beg you will in 
writing — a few lines will suffice — corroborate the fact of 
my having presented myself here, according to appointment, 
and mention the sad circumstances by which our intentions, 
for I believe I may speak of Mr. Layton’s as my own, have 
been frustrated.” 

“Well, now, stranger, we are speakin’ in confidence here, 
and I may just as well observe to you that of all the 
weapons that fit a man’s hands, the pen is the one I ’m 
least ready with. I ’m indifferent good with firearms or a 
bowie, but a pen, you see, cuts the fingers that hold it just 
as often as it hurts the enemy, and I don’t like it.” 

“But surely, where the object is merely to testify to a 
plain matter-of-fact — ” 

“There ain’t no such things on the ’arth as plain matters 
of fact, sir,” broke in Quackinboss, eagerly. ‘H’ve come 


A MASTER AND MAN. 165 


to the middle period of life, and I never met one of 
’em!” 

O’Shea made a slight, very slight movement of impatience 
at these words ; but the other remarked it, and said, — 

“We’ll come to that presently, sir. Let us just post up 
this account of Mr. Layton’s, first of all.” 

“1 don’t think there is anything further to detain me 
here,” said O’Shea, rising with an air of stiff politeness. 

“Won’t you take something, sir, — won’t you liquor?” 
asked Quackinboss, calmly. 

“Excuse me; I never do of a morning.” 

“I ’m sorry for it. I was a-thinkin’, maybe you ’d warm 
up a bit with a glass of something strong. I was hopin’ 
it’s the cold of the day chilled you! ” 

“Do you mean this for insult, sir?” said O’Shea. “I 
ask you, because, really, your use of the English language 
is of a kind to warrant the question.” 

“That ’s where I wanted to see you, sir. You ’re coming 
up to a good boilin’-point now, stranger,” said Quackin- 
boss, with a pleased look. 

“Is he mad, is he deranged?” muttered O’Shea, half 
aloud. 

“No, sir. We Western men are little liable to insanity; 
our lives are too much abroad and open-air lives for that. 
It ’s your thoughtful, reflective, deep men, as wears a rut in 
their mind with thinkin’; them ’s the fellows goes mad.” 

O’Shea’s stare of astonishment at this speech scarcely 
seemed to convey a concurrence in the assertion, and he 
made a step towards the door. 

“If you’re a-goin’, I’ve nothing more to say, sir,” said 
Quackinboss. 

“I cannot see what there is to detain me here! ” said the 


other, sternly. 

“There ain’t much, that’s a fact,” was the cool reply. 
“There’s nothing remarkable in them bottles; it’s new 
brandy and British gin ; and as for myself, sir, I can only 
say I must give you a bill payable at sight, — whenever we 
may meet again, I mean ; for just now this young man here 
can’t spare me. I ’m his nurse, you see. I hope you under- 
stand me ? ” 


166 


ONE OF THEM. 


“I believe I do.” 

“Well, that ’s all right, stranger, and here ’s my hand 
on’t.” And even before O’Shea was well aware, the other 
had taken his hand in his strong grasp and was shaking it 
heartily. O’Shea found it very hard not to laugh outright, 
but there was a meaning-like determination in the Ameri- 
can’s manner that showed it was no moment for mirth. 

It was, however, necessary to say something to relieve a 
very awkward pause, and so he observed, — 

“I hope Mr. Layton’s illness is not a serious one. I saw 
him, as I thought, perfectly well two days back.” 

“He’s main bad, sir; very sick, — very sick, indeed.” 

“You have a doctor, I suppose? ” 

“No, sir. I have some experience myself, and I’m just 
a-treatin’ him by what I picked up among people that have 
very few apothecaries, — the Mandan Indians.” 

“Without being particular, I must own I ’d prefer a more 
civilized course of physic,” said O’Shea, with a faint smile. 

“Very likely, stranger; and if you had a dispute, you ’d 
rather, mayhap, throw it into a law court, and leave it to 
three noisy fellows to quarrel over; while J’d look out for 
two plain fellows, with horny hands and honest hearts, and 
say, ‘ What ’s the rights o’ this, gentlemen? ’ ” 

“I wish you every success, I ’m sure,” said O’Shea, 
bowing. 

“The same to you, sir,” said the other, in a sing-song 
tone. “Good-bye.” 

When O’Shea had reached the first landing, he stopped, 
and, leaning against the wall, laughed heartily. “I hope 
I’ll be able to remember all he said,” muttered he, as he 
fancied himself amusing some choice company by a per- 
sonation of the Yankee. “The whole thing was as good as 
a play! But,” added he, after a pause, “I ’m not sorry it ’s 
over, and that I have done with him ! ” Very true and heart- 
felt was this last refiection of the Member for Inch, — a far 
more honest recognition than even the hearty laugh he had 
just enjoyed, — and then there came an uneasy after- 
thought, that asked, “What could he mean by talking of a 
long bill, payable at some future opportunity? Surely 
he can’t imagine that we ’re to renew all this if we ever meet 


A MASTER AND MAN. 


167 


again. No, no, Colonel, your manners and your medicine 
may be learned amongst the Mandans, but they won’t do 
here with us! ” And so he issued into the street, not quite 
reassured, but somewhat more comforted. 

So occupied was his mind with the late scene, that he had 
walked fully half-way back to his inn ere he bestowed a 
thought upon Joe. Wise men were they who suggested that 
the sentence of a prisoner should not immediately follow 
the conclusion of his trial, but ensue after the interval of 
some two or three days. In the impulse of a mind fully 
charged with a long narrative of guilt there is a force that 
seeks its expansion in severity ; whereas, in the brief respite 
of even some hours, there come doubts and hesitations and 
regrets and palliations. In a word, a variety of consider- 
ations unadmitted before find entrance now to the mind, 
and are suffered to influence it. 

Now, though Mr. O’Shea’s first and not very unnatural 
impulse was to give Joe a sound thrashing and then dis- 
charge him, the interval we have just described moderated 
considerably the severity of this resolve. In the first place, 
although the reader may be astonished at the assertion, Joe 
was one very difficult to replace, since, independently of 
his aptitude to serve as groom, valet, or cook, he was deeply 
versed in all the personal belongings of his master. He had 
been with him through long years of difficulty, and aided 
him in various ways, from coiTupting the virtuous free- 
holders of Inchabogue to raising an occasional supply on the 
rose-amethyst ring. Joe had fought for him and lied for 
him, with a zealous devotion not to be forgotten. Not, 
indeed, that he loved his master more, but that he liked the 
world less, and Joe found a sincere amount of pleasure in 
seeing how triumphantly their miserable pretensions swayed 
and dominated over mankind. And, lastly, he had another 
attribute, not to be undervalued in an age like ours, — he 
had no wages ! It is not to be understood that he served 
O’Shea out of some sense of heroic devotion or attachment: 
no; Joe lived, as they say in India, on “loot.” When times 
were prosperous, — that is, when billiards and blind-hookey 
smiled, and to his master’s pockets came home small Cali- 
fornias of half-crowns and even sovereigns, — Joe prospered 


168 


ONE OF THEM. 


also. He drank boldly and freely from the cup when brim- 
ful, but the half-empty goblet he only sipped at. When 
seasons of pressure set in, Joe’s existence was maintained 
by some inscrutable secret of his own; for, be it known 
that on O’Shea’s arrival at an hotel, his almost first care 
was to announce, “You will observe my servant is on board 
wages; he pays for himself;” and Joe would corroborate 
the myth with a bow. Bethink yourself, good reader, had 
you been the Member for Inch, it might have been a ques- 
tion whether to separate from such a follower. 

By the fluctuations of O’Shea’s fortunes, Joe’s whole con- 
duct seemed moulded. When the world went well with his 
master, his manner grew somewhat almost respectful; let 
the times grow worse, Joe became indifferent; a shade lower, 
and he was familiar and insolent; and, by long habit, 
O’Shea had come to recognize these changes as part of the 
condition of a varying fortune. 

Little wonder was it that Joe grew to speak of his master 
and himself as one, complaining, as he would, “We never 
got sixpence out of our property. ’T is the ruin of us pay- 
ing that annuity to our mother; ” and so on. 

Now, these considerations, and many others like them, 
weighed deeply on O’Shea’s mind, as he entered the room 
of the hotel, angry and irritated, doubtless, but far from 
decided as to how he should manifest it. Indeed, the delib- 
eration was cut short, for there stood Joe before him. 

“I thought I was never to see your face again,” said 
O’Shea, scowling at him. “How dare you have the inso- 
lence to appear before me ? ” 

“Is n’t it well for you that I ’m alive? Ain’t you lucky 
that you ’re not answering for my death this minute? ” said 
the other, boldly. “And if I did n’t drive like blazes, would 
1 be here now? Appear before you, indeed! I’d like to 
know who you ’d be appearin’ before, if I was murthered 
with them bitthers you gave me?” 

“ Lying scoundrel 1 you think to turn it all off in this man- 
ner. You commit a theft first, and if the offence had killed 
you, it ’s no more than you deserved. Who told you to steal 
the contents of that bag, sir?” 

“ The devil, I suppose, for I never felt pain like it, — 


A MASTER AND MAN. 


16 ^ 


twistin’ and tearin’ and torturin’ me as if you had a 
pinchers in my inside, and were, nippin’ me to pieces ! ” 

“I’m glad of it, — heartily glad of it.” 

“ I know you are, — I know you well. ’T is a corpse you ’d 
like to see me this minute.” 

“So that I never set eyes on you, I don’t care what be- 
comes of you.” 

“That ’s enough, — enough said. I ’m goin’.” 

“Go, and be !” 

“No, I won’t. I ’ll go and earn my livin’ ; and I’ll have 
my carakter, too, — eleven years last Lady-day; and I ’ll be 
paid back to my own counthry ; and I ’ll have my wages- 
up to Saturday next; and the docther’s bill, here, for all the 
stuff I tuk since I came in ; and when you are ready with all 
this, you can ring for me.” And with his hands clasped 
over his stomach, and in a half-bent position, Joe shuffled 
out and left his master to his own reflections. 

The world is full of its strange vicissitudes, and in noth- 
ing more remarkably than the way people are reconciled, 
ignore the past, and start afresh in life to incur more dis- 
agreements, and set to bickering again. Great kings and 
kaisers indulge in this pastime; profound statesmen and 
politicians do very little else. What wonder, then, if the 
declining sun saw the smart tandem slipping along towards 
the Bagni, with the O’Shea and his man sitting side by side 
in pleasant converse ! They were both smoking, and seemed 
like men who enjoyed their picturesque drive, and the in- 
spiriting pace they travelled at. 

“When I’ll singe these ‘cat hairs’ off, and trim him a 
little about the head, he ’ll look twice as well,” said Joe, 
with his eye on the leader. “It ’s a pity to see a collar on 
him.” 

“We ’ll take him down to Rome, and show him off over 
the hurdles,” said his master, joyfully. 

“I was just thinkin’ of that this minute; wasn’t that 
strange now ? ” 

“We ’ll have to go, for they ’re going to break up house 
‘here, and go off to Rome for the winter.” 

“How will we settle with Pan?” said Joe, thoughtfully. 

“A bill, I suppose.” 


170 


ONE OF THEM. 


Joe shook his head doubtingly. “I’m afraid not.” 

^‘Go I will, and go I must,” said O’Shea, resolutely. 
“I ’m not going to lose the best chance I ever had in life for 
the sake of a beggarly innkeeper.” 

“Why would you? Sure, no one would ask you! For, 
after all, ’t is only drivin’ away, if we ’re put to it. I don’t 
think he ’d overtake us.” 

“Not if we went the same pace you did this morning, 
Joe,” said O’Shea, laughing; and Joe joined pleasantly in 
the laugh, and the event ceased to be a grievance from that 
instant. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


MRS. MORRIS AS COUNSELLOR. 

The breakfast at the Villa Caprini always seemed to recall 
more of English daily life and habit than any other event 
of the day. It was not only in the luxuriously spread table, 
and the sideboard arrayed with that picturesque profusion 
so redolent of home, but there was that gay and hearty 
familiarity so eminently the temper of the hour, and that 
pleasant interchange of news and gossip, as each tore the 
envelope of his letter, or caught some amusing paragraph in 
his paper. 

Mrs. Penthony Morris had a very wide correspondence, 
and usually contributed little scraps of intelligence from 
various parts of the Continent. They were generally the 
doings and sayings of that cognate world whose names re- 
quire no inti’oduction, and even those to whom they are 
unfamiliar would rather hear in silence than own to the 
ignorance. The derelicts of fashion are the staple of 
small-talk ; they are suggestive of all the little social smart- 
ness one hears, and of that very Brummagem morality which 
assumes to judge them. In these Mrs. Morris revelled. No 
paragraph of the “Morning Post” was too mysteriously 
worded for her powers of interpretation ; no asterisks could 
veil a name from her piercing gaze. Besides, she had fash- 
ioned a sort of algebraic code of life which wonderfully as- 
sisted her divination, and being given an unhappy marriage, 
she could foretell the separation, or, with the data of a 
certain old gentleman’s visits to St. John’s Wood, could pre- 
dict his will with an accuracy that seemed marvellous. As 
she sat, surrounded with letters and notes of all sizes, she 
varied the tone of her intelligence so artfully as to canvass 


172 


ONE OF THEM. 


the suffrage of every listener. Now it was some piece of 
court gossip, some “ scandal of Queen Elizabeth,” now a 
curious political intrigue, and now, again, some dashing ex- 
ploit of a young soldier in India. But whether it told of 
good or evil fortune, of some deeply interesting event or 
some passing triviality, her power of narrating it was con- 
siderable, as, with a tact all her own, she selected some 
one especial individual as chief listener. After a number of 
short notices of London, Rome, and Paris, she tossed over 
several letters carelessly, saying, — 

“ I believe I have given you the cream of my correspond- 
ence. Stay, here is something about your old sloop the 
‘ Mosquito,’ Lord Agincourt ; would you like to hear of how 
she attacked the forts at the mouth of the — oh, how shall I 
attack it? — the Bhageebhahoo? This is a midshipman’s 
letter, written the same evening of the action.” 

Though the question was addressed very pointedly, the 
boy never heard it, but sat deeply engaged in deciphering a 
very jagged handwriting in a letter before him. It was one 
of those scratchy, unfinished specimens of penmanship which 
are amongst the luxuries persons of condition occasionally 
indulge in. Seeing his preoccupation, Mrs. Morris did not 
repeat her question, but suffered him to pursue his researches 
undisturbed. He had just begun his breakfast when the 
letter arrived, and now he ceased to eat anything, but seemed 
entirely engrossed by his news. At last he arose abruptly, 
and left the room. 

“ I hope Agincourt has not got any bad tidings,” said Sir 
William; “he seems agitated and uneasy.” 

“ I saw his guardian’s name — Sommerville — on the 
envelope,” said Mrs. Morris. “ It is, probably, one of those 
pleasant epistles which wards receive quarterly to remind 
them that even minors have miseries.” 

The meal did not recover its pleasant tone after this little 
incident, and soon after they all scattered through the house 
and the grounds, Mrs. Morris setting out for her usual 
woodland walk, which she took each morning. A half- 
glance the boy had given her as he quitted the room at 
breakfast-time, induced her to believe that he wanted to 
consult her about his letter, and so, as she entered the 


MRS. MORRIS AS COUNSELLOR. 173 

shrubbery, she was not surprised to find Lord Agincourt there 
before her. 

“ I was just wishing it might be your footstep I heard 
on the gravel,” said he, joining her. “ May I keep you 
company ? ” 

‘‘To be sure, provided you don’t make love to me, which 
I never permit in the forenoon.” 



“ Oh, I have other thoughts in my head,” said he, sighing 
drearily; “and you are the very one to advise me what to 
do. Not, indeed, that I have any choice about that, only 
how to do it, that’s the question.” 

“When one has the road marked out, it’s never very 
hard to decide on the mode of the journey,” said she. “ Tell 
me what your troubles are.” 

“ Troubles you may well call them,” said he, with a deeper 
sigh. “There, read that — if you can read it — for the 
old Earl does not grow more legible by being older.” 


174 


ONE OF THEM. 


“‘Crews Court,’” read she, aloud. “Handsome old 
abbey it must be,” added she, remarking on a little tinted 
sketch at the top of the letter. 

“Yes, that’s a place of mine. I was born there,” said 
the boy, half proudly. 

“ It’s quite princely.” 

“ It’s a fine old thing, and I’d give it all this minute not 
to have had that disagreeable letter.” 

“ ‘ My dear Henry,’ ” began she, in a low, muttering 
voice, “ ‘ I have heard with — with ’ — not abomination — oh 
no, ‘ astonishment — with astonishment, not unmixed with ’ 
— it can’t be straw — is it straw? — no, it is ‘ shame, — not 
unmixed with shame, that you have so far forgiven — for- 
gotten ’ — oh, that ’s it — ‘ what was done to yourself.’ ” 

“No, ‘what was due to yourself,”’ interrupted he; 
“that’s a favorite word of his, and so I know it.” 

“‘To become the — the’ — dear me, what can this be 
with the vigorous G at the beginning ? — ‘to become ’ — is it 
really the Giant? — ‘to become the Giant’ — ” 

The boy here burst into a fit of laughing, and, taking the 
letter from her, proceeded to read it out. 

“ I have spelt it all over five times,” said he, “ and I know 
it by heart. ‘I have heard with astonishment, not unmixed 
with shame, that you have so far forgotten what was due to 
yourself as to become the Guest of one who for so many 
years was the political opponent and even personal enemy of 
our house. Your ignorance of family history cannot possi- 
bly be such as that you are unaware of the claims once put 
forward by this same Sir William Heathcote to your father’s 
peerage, or of the disgraceful law proceedings instituted to 
establish his pretensions.’ As if I ever heard a w’ord of all 
this before ! as if I knew or cared a brass button about the 
matter ! ” burst he in. “ ‘ Had your tutor’ — here comes in 
my poor coach for Ms turn,” said Agincourt — “ ‘ had \^our 
tutor but bestowed proper attention to the instructions 
written by my own hand for his guidance — ’ We never 
could read them ; we have been at them for hours together, 
and all we could make out was, ‘ Let him study hazard, 
roulette, and all other such games ; ’ which rather surprised 
us, till we found out it was ‘ shun,’ and not ‘ study,’ and ‘ only 


MRS. MORRIS AS COUNSELLOR. 


175 


frequent the fast society of each city he visits,’ which was a 
mistake for ‘first.’” 

“ Certainly the noble Lord has a most ambiguous calligra- 
phy,” said she, smiling ; “ and Mr. Layton is not so culpable 
as might be imagined.” 

“Ah!” cried the boy, laughing, “I wish you had seen 
Alfred’s face on the day he received our first quarter’s remit- 
tance, and read out : ‘ You may drag on me like a mouse, if 
you please,’ which was intended to be, ‘ draw upon me to a 
like amount, if you please ; ’ and it was three weeks before 
we could make that out 1 But let me go on — where was I? 
Oh, at ‘ guidance.’ ‘ Recent information has, however, 
shown me that nothing could have been more unfortunate 
than our choice of this young man, his father being one of 
the most dangerous individuals known to the police, a man 
familiar with the lowest haunts of crime, a notorious swin- 
dler, and a libeller by profession. In the letter which I send 
off by this day’s post to your tutor I have enclosed one from 
his father to myself. It is not very likely that he will show 
it to you, as it contains the most insolent demands for an 
increase of salary — “as some slight, though inadequate, 
compensation for an office unbecoming my son’s rank, insult- 
ing to his abilities, and even damaging to his acquirements.” 
I give you this in his own choice language, but there is much 
more in the same strain. The man, it would appear, has 
just come out of a lunatic asylum, to which place his intem- 
perate habits had brought him ; and I may mention that his 
first act of gratitude to the benevolent individual who had 
undertaken the whole cost of his maintenance there was to 
assault him in the open street, and give him a most savage 
beating. Captain Hone or Holmes — a distinguished offi- 
cer, as I am told — is still confined to his room from the 
consequences.’ ” 

“ How very dreadful ! ” said Mrs. Morris calmly. “ Shock- 
ing treatment ! for a distinguished officer too I ” 

“ Dreadful fellow he must be,” said the boy. “What a 
rare fright he must have given my old guardian ! But the 
end of it all is, I’m to leave Alfred, and go back to England 
at once. I wish I was going to sea again ; I wish I was off 
thousands of miles away, and not to come home for years. 


176 


ONE OF THEM. 


To part with the kind, good fellow, that was like a brother 
to me, this way, — how can I do it ? And do you perceive, 
he has n’t one word to say against Alfred ? It ’s only that he 
has the misfortune of this terrible father. And, after all, 
might not that be any one ’s lot? You might have a father 
you couldn’t help being ashamed of.” 

‘‘Of course,” said she; “I can fancy such a case easily 
enough.” 

“I know it will nearly kill poor Alfred ; he ’ll not be able 
to bear it. He ’s as proud as he is clever, and he ’ll not 
endure the tone of the EaiTs letter. Who knows what he ’ll 
do? Can you guess?” 

“Not in the least. I imagine that he ’ll submit as patiently 
^is he can, and look out for another situation.” 

“ Ah, there you don’t know him ! ” broke in the boy : “ he 
ean’t endure this kind of thing. He only consented to take 
me because his health was breaking up from hard reading ; 
he wanted rest and a change of climate. At first he refused 
altogether, and only gave way when some of his college dons 
over-persuaded him.” 

She smiled a half-assent, but said nothing. 

“Then there’s another point,” said he, suddenly: “I’m 
sure his Lordship has not been very measured in the terms 
of his letter to him. I can just fancy the tone of it; and I 
don’t know how poor Alfred is to bear that.” 

‘ ‘ My dear boy, you ’ll learn one of these days — and the 
knowledge will come not the less soon from your being a Peer 
— that all the world is either forbearing or overbearing. You 
must be wolf or lamb : there ’s no help for it.” 

“Alfred never told me so,” said he, sternly. 

“It’s more than likely that he did not know ! There are 
no men know less of life than these college creatures ; and 
there lies the great mistake in selecting such men for tutors 
for our present-day life and its accidents. Alexandre Dumas 
would be a safer guide than Herodotus ; and Thackeray teach 
you much more than Socrates.” 

“ If I only had in my head one-half of what Alfred knew, 
I ’d be well satisfied,” said the boy. “ Ay, and what ’s better 
still, without his thinking a bit about it.” 

“And so,” said she, musingly, “you are to go back to 
England?” 


MRS. MORRIS AS COUNSELLOR. 


177 


“ That does not seem quite settled, for he says, in a post- 
script, that Sir George Rivers, one of the Cabinet, I believe, 
has mentioned some gentleman, a ‘ member of their party,* 
now in Italy, and who would probably consent to take charge 
of me till some further arrangements could be come to.*’ 

“ Hold your chain till a new bear-leader turned up ! ” said 
she, laughing. “ Oh dear ! I wonder when that wise genera- 
tions of guardians will come to know that the real guide for 
the creatures like you is a woman. Yes, you ought to be 
travelling with your governess, — some one whose ladylike 
tone and good manners would insensibly instil quietness, 
reserve, and reverence in your breeding, correct your bad 
French, and teach you to enter or leave a room without 
seeming to be a housebreaker ! ” 

“ I should like to know who does that?” asked he, indig- 
nantly. 

“ Every one of you young Englishmen, whether you come 
fresh from Brasenose or the Mess of the Forty-something, 
you have all of you the same air of bashful bull-dogs ! ” 

“Oh, come, this is too bad; is this the style of Charles 
Heathcote, for instance?” 

“ Most essentially it is; the only thing is that, the bull- 
dog element predominating in his nature, he appears the 
less awkward in consequence.” 

“ I should like to hear what you’d say of the O’Shea.” 

“ Oh, Mr. O’Shea is an Irishman, and their ways bear the 
same relation to general good breeding that rope-dancing does 
to waltzing.” 

“ I ’ll take good care not to ask you for any description of 
myself,” said he, laughingly. 

“ You are very wrong then, for you should have heard 
something excessively flattering,” was her reply. “ Shall I 
tell you who your new protector is to be?” cried she, after 
a moment’s pause; “I have just guessed it: the O’Shea 
himself ! ” 

“O’Shea! impossible; how could you imagine such a 
thing?” 

“I’m certain I’m right. He is always talking of his 
friend Sir George Rivers — he calls him Rivers, — who is 
Colonial Secretary, and who is to make him either Bishop 

12 


178 


ONE OF THEM. 


of Barbadoes or a Gold Stick at the Gambria ; and you ’ll 
see if I ’m not correct, and that the wardship of a young 
scapegrace lordling is to be the retaining fee of this faith- 
ful follower of his party. Of course, there will be no 
question of tutorship ; in fact, it would have such an un- 
pleasant resemblance to the farce and Mr. O’Toole, as to 
be impossible. You will simply be travelling together. 
It will be double harness, but only one horse doing the 
work ! ” 

“I never can make out whether you’re in jest or in 
earnest,” said he, pettishly. 

“ I ’m always in earnest when I ’m jesting ; that ’s the 
only clue I can give you.” 

“ But all this time we have been wandering away from 
the only thing I wanted to think of, — how to part with 
dear Alfred. You have told me nothing about that.” 

“ These are things which, as the French say, always do 
themselves, and, consequently, it is better never to plan or 
provide for; and, remember, as a maxim, whenever the cur- 
rent is carrying you the way you want to go, put in your oar 
as little as possible. And as to old associations, they are like 
old boots : they are very pleasant wear, but they won’t last 
forever. There now, I have given you quite enough matter 
to think over : and so, good-bye.” 

As Agin court turned his steps slowly towards the house, 
he marvelled with himself what amount of guidance she 
had given him. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


joe’s diplomacy. 

Mr. O’Shea’s man was not one to put his light under a 
bushel ; so, when he received at the post-office a very por- 
tentous-looking letter, heavily sealed, and marked “On Her 
Majesty’s Service,” he duly stopped the two or three English 
loungers he saw about to show them the document, on pre- 
tence of asking if any demand for postage could be made ; 
if it had not been wrongfully detained ; if they thought it 
had been opened and read ; and so on, — all these inquiries 
having for their object to inform the general public that the 
Member for Inch was in close relation and correspondence 
with Downing Street. 

In sooth, the letter had as significant an external as any 
gentleman in pursuit of a place might have desired. In 
color, texture, and fashion there was nothing wanting to its 
authenticity, and it might, without any disparagement to 
its outside, have named Mr. O’Shea a Governor of the 
Bahamas, or a Mahogany Commissioner at Ruatan. It 
was, in fact, a document that, left negligently in the way, 
might have made a dun appeasable, and a creditor patient. 
There were few men it might not in some degree have im- 
posed on, but of that few the O’Shea himself was one. He 
knew well — too well — that it foretold neither place nor 
employment ; that it was the shell of a very small kernel ; 
nothing more, in short, than a note from an old friend and 
schoolfellow, then acting as the Private Secretary of a 
Cabinet Minister, — one who, indeed, kept his friend O’Shea 
fully informed as to everything that fell vacant, but, unhap- 
pily, accompanied the intelligence with a catalogue of the 
applicants, usually something like the list of the Smiths in 
a Directory. 


180 


ONE OF THEM. 


So little impatient was O’Shea for the contents, that he 
had half eaten his breakfast and looked through “ Punch ” 
before he broke the seal. The enclosure was from the hand 
of his friend Tom Radwell, but whose peculiar drollery it 
was to correspond in the form of a mock despatch. The 
note, therefore, though merely containing gossip, was written 
with all attention to margin and calligraphy, and even in 
places affected the solemn style of the Office. It was headed 
“Secret and Confidential,” and opened thus: — 

“Sir, — By your despatch of the 18th ult., containing four en- 
closures, — three protested bills, and your stepmother’s I O for 18/. 
5s., — I am induced to believe that no material change has occurred 
in the situation of your affairs, — a circumstance the more to be 
deplored, inasmuch as her Majesty’s Government cannot at this 
moment, with that due regard imposed on them for the public 
service, undertake either to reconsider your claims, or by an extra- 
ordinary exercise of the powers vested in them by the Act of Teddy 
the Tiler, chap. 4, secs. 9 and 10, appoint you in the way and man- 
ner you propose. So much, my dear Gorman, old Rivers declared 
to me this morning, confidentially adding, I wish that Irish party 
would understand that, when we could buy them altogether in a 
basket, as in O’Connell’s day, the arrangement was satisfactory ; but 
to have to purchase them separately — each potato by himself — is 
a terrible loss of time, and leads to no end of higgling. Why can’t 
you agree amongst yourselves, — make your bargain, and then divide 
the spoils quietly ? It is the way your forefathers understood the 
law of commonage, and nobody ever grumbled that his neighbor had 
a cow or a pig too many ! The English of all this is, they don’t 
want you just now, and they won’t have you, for you ’re an article 
that never kept well, and, even when bonded, your loss by leakage is 
considerable. 

“ Every Irishman I ever met makes the same mistake of offering 
himself for sale when the commodity is not wanted. If you see 
muffs and boas in Regent Street in July, ain’t they always ticketed 
* a great sacrifice ’ ? Can’t you read the lesson ? But so it is with 
you. You fancy you ’ll induce people to travel a bad road by put- 
ting up a turnpike. 

“ I ’m sorry to say all this to you, but I see plainly politics will not 
do any longer as a pursuit. It is not only that all appointments are 
so scrutinized nowadays, but that every man’s name in a division is 
weighed and considered in a fashion that renders a mere majority of 
less moment than the fact of how it was composed. If I cannot 
manage something for you in the West Indies, you must try 
Cheltenham. 


JOE’S DIPLOMACY. 


181 


“ Rivers has just sent for me. 

“ ‘ What of your friend O’Shea? Did n’t you tell me he was in 
the north of Italy ? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said I ; ‘ he ’s getting up the Italian question. He has 
accumulated a mass of facts which will astonish the House next 
session.’ 

“ ‘ Confound his facts ! ’ muttered he. ‘ Here has been Lord 
Sommerville with me, about some young ward of his. I don’t well 
understand what he wants, or what he wishes me to do ; but the 
drift is, to find some one — a gentleman, of course — who would take 
charge of the boy for a short time; he is a marquis, with large ex- 
pectations, and one day or other will be a man of mark.’ 

“ I tried the dignity tone, but old Rivers interrupted me quickly, — 

“ ‘ Yes, yes, of course. Mere companionship, nothing more. 
Sound O’Shea upon it, and let me hear.’ 

“ Here, then, my dear Gorman, is the ‘ opening ’ you so long have 
looked for ; and if you cannot turn such a position to good profit, 
who can ? Nor are you the man I take you for, if you ’re not 
married into the family before this day twelvemonth ! There is no 
time to be lost, so telegraph back at once. A simple ‘ Yes ’ will do, 
if you accept, which I sincerely hope you will. All the minor ar- 
rangements you may safely trust to we.” 

When Mr. O’Shea had read thus far, he arose, and, walk- 
ing with head erect and well thrown-out chest towards the 
looking-glass, he desired to “take stock ” of his appearance, 
and to all semblance was not displeased at the result. He 
was autumnalizing, it is true; tints were mellowing, colors 
more sombre ; but, on the whole, there was nothing in the 
landscape, viewed at due distance and with suitable light, 
to indicate much ravage from Time. Your hard-featured 
men, like mountains in scenery, preserve the same appear- 
ance unchanged by years. It is your genial fellow, with 
mobile features, that suffers so terribly from age. The 
plough of Time leaves deep furrows in the arable soil of 
such faces. As in those frescos which depend altogether 
on color, the devastations of years are awfully felt; when 
black degenerates into gray, mellow browns grow a muddy 
yellow, and the bright touches that “accentuated ” expression 
are little else than unmeaning blotches! If the Member for 
Inch had not travelled far upon the dreary road, I am bound 
in truth to own that he had begun the journey. A light, 


182 


ONE OF THEM. 


faint silvering showed on his whiskers, like the first touch 
of snow on an Alpine fern in October. The lines that 
indicated a ready aptitude for fun had deepened, and grown 
more marked at the angles at the mouth, — a sad sign of 
one whose wit was less genial and more biting than of 
yore. Then — worst of all — he had entered upon the pom- 
pous lustre wherein men feel an exaggerated self-importance, 
imagine that their opinions are formed, and their character 
matured. Nothing is so trying as that quarantine period, 
and both men and women make more egregious fools of 
themselves in it than in all the wild heydey of early youth. 

Mr. O’Shea, however, was an Irishman, and, in virtue of 
the fact, he had a light, jaunty, semi-careless way with him, 
which is a sort of electroplate youth, and looks like the real 
article, though it won’t prove so lasting. 

“I must have a look into the Peerage,” said he, as he 
turned to the bulky volume that records the alliances and 
the ages of the “upper ten thousand”: — 

“ ‘ Lady Maria Augusta Sofronia Montserrat, born ’ — oh, 
by the powers, that won’t do! — ‘born 1804.’ Oh, come, 
after all, it’s not so bad; ‘ died in ’46. — Charlotte Rose 
Leopoldine, died in infancy. — Henrietta Louisa, born 1815; 
married in 1835 to Lord Julius de Raby; again married to 
Prince Beerstenshoften von Hahnsmarkt, and widowed same 
year, 1846.’ I’ll put a mark against her. And there’s 
one more, ‘ Juliana de Vere, youngest daughter, born ’26 ’ — 
that ’s the time of day! — born ’26, and no more said. The 
paragraph has yet to be filled with, ‘ Married to the O’Shea, 
Member of Parliament for Inchabogue, High Sheriff of Tip- 
perary, and head of the ancient cept known as O’Meadhlin 
Shamdoodhlin Naboklish O’Shea’ — I wonder if they ’d put 
it in — ‘formerly Kings of Tulloch Reardhin and Bare-ma- 
bookle, and all the countries west of the Galtee Moun- 
tains.’ If pedigree would do it, O’Shea may call himself 
first favorite! And now. Miss Leslie,” continued he, aloud, 
“you have no time to lose; make your bidding quickly, or 
the O’Shea will be knocked down to another purchaser. 
As Eugene Aram says, ‘I’m equal to either fortune.’ ” 

“Well,” said Joe, entering the room, and approaching his 
master confidentially, “is it a place?” 


JOE’S DIPLOMACY. 183 

“Nothing of the kind; a friendly letter from a member of 
the Cabinet,” replied he, carelessly. 

“Devil take them! It isn’t friendship we want; it’s 
something to live on.” 

“You are a low-minded, mercenary creature,” said 
O’Shea, oratorically. “Is our happiness in this life, our 
self-respect, our real worth, dependent upon the accident of 
our station, or upon the place we occupy in the affections of 
men, — what we possess of their sympathy and love? I look 
around me, and what do I see ? ” 

“Sorra bit of me knows,” broke in Joe. 

Unmindful of the interruption, O’Shea continued: “I see 
the high places occupied by the crafty, the subtle, and the 
scheming.” 

“I wish we had one of them,” muttered Joe. 

“I see that humble merit shivers at the door, while inso- 
lent pretension struts proudly in.” 

“Ay, and more power to him, if he ’s able,” grumbled out 
the other. 

“I see more,” said O’Shea, raising his voice, and extend- 
ing his arm at full length, — “I see a whole nation, — eight 
millions of men, — great, glorious, and gifted, — men whose 
genius has shed a lustre over the dull swamp of their 
oppressors’ nature, but who one day, rising from her 
ashes — ” 

“Ah! by my conscience, I knew it was cornin’; and I 
said to myself, ‘ Here ’s the phaynix! ’ ” 

“ Rising from her ashes like the Megatherion of Thebes. 
Where are you now. Master Joe?” said he, with an insolent 
triumph in his look. 

“I ’d just as soon have the phaynix,” said Joe, doggedly. 
“Go on.” 

“How can I go on? How could any man? Demosthenes 
himself would stand confused in presence of such vulgar 
interruptions. It is in such temperaments as yours men of 
genius meet their worst repulses. You are at once the ferce 
natures of humanity, and the pestilential atmosphere that 
poisons — that poisons — ” 

“Oh ! there you are ‘ pounded ’ ! Poisons what ? ” 

“Poisons the pellucid rills which should fertilize the soul 


184 


ONE OF THEM. 


of man! I'm never pounded. O’Connell himself had to 
confess that he never saw my equal in graceful imagery and 
figurative embellishment. ‘Listening to O’Shea,’ says he, 
‘ is like watching a juggler with eight balls flying round and 
about him. You may think it impossible he ’ll be in time, 
but never one of them will he fail to catch.’ That ’s what 
I call oratory. Why is it, I ask, that, when I rise in the 
house, you ’d hear a pin drop? ” 

“Maybe they steal out on their tiptoes,” said Joe, 
innocently. 

“No, sir, they stand hushed, eager, anxious, as were the 
Greeks of old to catch the words of Ulysses. I only wish 

you saw old P working away with his pencil while I ’m 

speakiug.” 

“Making a picture of you, maybe! ” 

“You are as insolent as you are ignorant, — one of those 
who, in the unregenerate brutality of their coarse nature, 
repel the attempts of all who would advocate the popular 
cause. I have said so over and over again. If you would 
constitute yourself the friend of the people, take care to 
know nothing of them; neither associate with them, nor 
mix in their society: as Tommy Moore said of Ireland, 
‘It ’s a beautiful country to live out of.’ ” 

“And he was a patriot! ” said Joe, contemptuously. 

“There are no patriots among those who soar above the 
miserable limits of a nationality. Genius has no concern 
with geographies. To think for the million you must forget 
the man.” 

“Say that again. I like the sound of that,” cried Joe, 
admiringly. 

“If anything could illustrate the hopelessness of your 
class and condition in life,” continued O’Shea, “it is your- 
self. There you are, daily, hourly associating with one 
whose sentiments you hear, whose opinions you learn, whose 
judgments you record ; one eagerly sought after in society, 
revered in private, honored in the Senate ; and what have 
you derived from these unparalleled advantages ? What can 
you say has been the benefit from these relations ? ” 

“It’s hard to say,” muttered Joe, “except, maybe, it’s 
made me a philosopher.” 


JOE’S DIPLOMACY. 


185 


“A philosopher! — you a philosopher! ” 

“Ay; isn’t it philosophy to live without wages, and 
work without pay? ’Tis from yourself I heerd that the 
finest thing of all is to despise money.” 

“ So it is, — so it would be, I mean, if society had not built 
up that fiimsy card edifice it calls civilization. Put out 
my blue pelisse with the Astrachan collar, and my braided 
vest; I shall want to go over to the Villa this morning. 
But, first of all, take this to the telegraph-office: ‘ The 
O’Shea accepts.’” 

“Tear and ages! what is it we’ve got?” asked Joe, 
eagerly. 

The O’Shea accepts,’ — four words if they charge for 
the ‘ O.’ Let me know the cost at once.” 

‘‘But why don’t you tell me where we’re going? Is it 
Jamaica or Jerusalem?” 

“Call your philosophy to your aid, and be anxious for 
nothing,” said O’Shea, pompously. “Away, lose no more 
time.” 

If Joe had been the exponent of his feelings, as he left 
the room, he would probably have employed his favorite 
phrase, and confessed himself “humiliated.” He certainly 
did feel acutely the indignity that had been passed upon 
him. To live on a precarious diet and no pay was bad 
enough, but it was unendurable that his master should cease 
to consult with and confide in him. Amongst the ship- 
wrecked sufferers on a raft, gradations of rank soon cease 
to be remembered, and of all equalizers there is none like 
misery! Now, Mr. O’Shea and his man Joe had, so to say, 
passed years of life upon a raft. They had been storm - 
tossed and cast away for many a day. Indeed, to push the 
analogy further, they had more than once drawn lots who 
should be first devoured ; that is to say, they had tossed up 
whose watch was to go first to the pawnbroker. Now, was 
it fair or reasonable, if his master discovered a sail in the 
distance, or a headland on the horizon, that he should con- 
ceal the consoling fact, and leave his fellow-sufferer to 
mourn on in misery? Joe was deeply wounded; he was 
insulted and outraged. 

From the pain of his personal wrongs he was suddenly 
aroused by the telegraph clerk’s demand for thirty francs. 


186 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Thirty francs for four words? ” 

“You might send twenty for the same sum,” was the 
bland reply. 

“Faix, and so we will,” said Joe. “Give me a pen and 
a sheet of paper.” 

His first inspirations were so full of vengeance that he 
actually meditated a distinct refusal of whatever it was had 
been offered to his master, and his only doubt was how to 
convey the insolent negative in its most outrageous form. 
His second and wiser thoughts suggested a little diplomacy ; 
and though both the consideration and the mode of effectu- 
ating it cost no small labor, we shall spare the reader’s pa- 
tience, and give him the result arrived at after nearly an 
hour’s exertion, the message transmitted by Joe running 
thus : — 

“ Send the fullest particulars about the pay and the name of the 
place we ’re going to. 

“O’Shea.” 

“I don’t think there will be many secrets after I see the 
answer to that ; and see it I will, if I tear it open ! ” said 
Joe, sturdily, as he held his way back to the inn. 

A rather warm discussion ensued on the subject of his 
long absence, O’Shea remarking that for all the use Joe 
proved himself he might as well be without a servant, and 
Joe rejoining that, for the matter of pay and treatment, he 
might be pretty nearly as well off if he had no master ; these 
polite passages being interchanged while the O’Shea was 
busily performing with two hair-brushes, and Joe equally 
industriously lacing his master’s waistcoat, with an artistic 
skill that the valet of a corpulent gentleman alone attains 
to, as Joe said a hundred times. 

“I wonder why I endure you,” said O’Shea, as he jauntily 
settled his hat on one side of his head, and carefully arranged 
the hair on the other. 

“And you ’ll wondher more, when I ’m gone, why I did n’t 
go before,” was Joe’s surly rejoinder. 

“How did you come by that striped cravat, sir? ” asked 
O’Shea, angrily, as he caught sight of Joe in front. 

“I took it out of the drawer.” 


JOE’S DIPLOMACY. 


187 


“It’s mine, then!” 

“It was wonst. I did n’t suppose you ’d wear it after what 
the widow woman said of you up at the Villa, — that Mrs. 
Morris. ‘ Here ’s the O’Shea,’ says she, ‘ masquerading 
as a zebra; ’ as much as to say it was another baste you was 
in reality.” 

“She never dared to be so insolent.” 

“She did; I heard it myself.” 

“I don’t believe you; I never do believe one word you 
say.” 

“That ’s exactly what I hear whenever I say you ’re a man 
of fine fortune and good estate ; they all cry out, ‘ What a 
lying rascal he is 1 ’ ” 

O’Shea made a spring towards the poker, and Joe as 
rapidly took up a position behind the dressing-glass. 

“Hush!” cried O’Shea, “there’s some one at the door.” 

And a loud summons at the same time confirmed the 
words. With a ready instinct Joe speedily recovered him- 
self, and hastened to open it. 

“Is your master at home?” asked a voice. 

“Oh, Heathcote, is it you?” exclaimed O’Shea; “just 
step into the next room, and I ’ll be with you in a second 
or two. Joe, show Captain Heathcote into the drawing- 
room.” 

“ I wondher what ’s the matter with him ? ” said Joe, confi- 
dentially, as he came back. “I never see any one look so 
low.” 

“So much the better,” said O’Shea, merrily; ‘^it ’s a sign 
he ’s coming to pay money. When a man is about to put 
you off with a promise, he lounges in with an easy, devil- 
may-care look that seems to say, ‘ It ’s all one, old fellow, 
whether you have an I O or the ready tin.’ ” 

“There’s a deal of truth in that,” said Joe, approvingly, 
and with a look that showed how pleasurable it was to him 
to hear such words of wisdom. 


CHAPTER XX. 


A DREARY FORENOON. 

O’Shea swaggered into the room where Heathcote was 
standing to await him, in the attitude of one who desired to 
make his visit as brief as might be. 

“How good of you to drive over to this dreary spot,” 
began the Member, jauntily, “where the blue devils seem 
to have their especial home. I ’m hipped and bored here 
as I never was before. Come, sit down; have you break- 
fasted ? ” * 

“Three hours ago.” 

“Take some luncheon, then; a glass of sherry, at least.” 

“Nothing — thanks — it’s too early.” 

“Won’t you have even a weed?” said he, opening a 
cigar-box. 

“I ’m provided,” said the other, showing the half of a still 
lighted cigar. “I came over this morning, hoping to catch 
you at home, and make some sort of settlement about our 
little transactions together.” 

“My dear fellow, you surely can’t think it makes any 
matter between us. I hope you know that it is entirely a 
question for your own convenience. No man has more 
experience of what it is to be ‘ hit hard,’ as they say. 
When I first came out, I got it. By Jove! did n’t I get it, 
and at both sides of the head too. It was Mopus’s year, 
when the Yorkshire Lass ran a dead heat with Skyrocket for 
the Diddlesworth. I stood seventeen to one, in thousands! 
think of that, — seventeen thousand pounds to one against 
the filly. It was thought so good a thing that Naylor — old 
Jerry, as they used to call him — offered me a clean thou- 
sand to let him take half the wager. But these are old 
stories now, and they only bore you ; in fact, it was just to 
show you that every man has his turn — ” 


A DREARY FORENOON. 


189 


“I own frankly,” broke in Heathcote, “I am far too full 
of selfish cares to take a proper interest in your story. Just 
tell me if these figures are correct ? ” And he turned to look 
out for a particular page in a small book. 

“Confound figures ! I wish they never were invented. If 
one only thinks of all the hearty fellows they ’ve set by the 
ears, the close friendships they have severed, the strong 
attachments they have broken, I declare one would be justi- 
fied in saying it was the devil himself invented arithmetic.” 

“I wish he ’d have made it easier when he was about it,” 
said Heathcote. 

“Excellent, by Jove! — how good! ‘Made it easier* — 
capital!” cried O’Shea, laughing with a boisterous jollity 
that made the room ring. “I hope I *11 not forget that. I 
must book that mot of yours.** 

Heathcote grew crimson with shame, and, in an angry 
impulse, pitched his cigar into the fire. 

“That’s right,” broke in O’Shea; “these are far better 
smoking than your cheroots; these are Hudson’s ‘Grand 
Viziers,’ made especially for Abba Pasha’s own smoking.” 

Heathcote declined coldly, and continued his search 
through his note-book. 

“It was odd enough,” said O’Shea, “just as you came in 
I was balancing in my own mind whether I ’d go over to the 
Villa, or write to you.” 

“Write to me! ” said the other, reddening. 

“Don’t be scared; it was not to dun you. No; I was 
meditating whether it was quite fair of me to take that trap 
and the nags. You like that sort of thing; it suits you 
too. Now, I ’m sobering down into the period of Park 
phaetons and George the Fourths: a low step to get in, and 
a deep, well-cushioned seat, with plenty of leg room; that ’s 
more my style. As Holditch says, ‘ The O’Shea wants an 
armchair upon C springs and Collinge’s patent.* Free and 
easy that, from a rascally coachmaker, eh?** 

“I don’t want the horses. I have no use for them. I *m 
not quite clear whether you valued the whole thing at two 
hundred and fifty or three hundred and fifty ? ** 

“We said, two fifty,** replied O’Shea, in his silkiest of 

tones. 


190 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Be it so,” muttered Heathcote; “I gave two hundred for 
the chestnut horse at TattersalFs.” 

“He was dear, — too dear,” was the dry reply. 

“Esterhazy called him the best horse he ever bred.” 

“He shall have him this morning for a hundred and 
twenty.” 

“Well, well,” burst in Heathcote, “we are not here to dis- 
pute about that. I handed you, as well as I remember, 
eighty and two hundred and thirty Naps.” 

“More than that, I think,” said O’Shea, thoughtfully, and 
as if laboring to recollect clearly. 

“I’m certain I’m correct,” said Heathcote, haughtily. 
“I made no other payments than these two, — eighty and 
two hundred and thirty.” 

“What a memory I have, to be sure! ” said O’Shea, laugh- 
ingly. “I remember now, it was a rouleau of fifty that I 
paid away to Layton was running in my head.” 

Heathcote’ s lip curled superciliously, but it was only for 
a second, and his features were calm as before. “Two 
thirty and eighty make three hundred and ten, and three 
fifty — ” 

“Two fifty for the trap! ” broke in O’Shea. 

“Ah! to be sure, two fifty, make altogether five hundred 
and sixty Naps, leaving, let me see — ninety-four — sixty- 
one — one hundred and twelve — ” 

“A severe night that was. You never won a game!” 
chimed in O’Shea. 

“ — One hundred and twelve and seventy, making three 
hundred and thirty-seven in all. Am I right ? ” 

“Correct as Cocker, only you have forgotten your walk 
against time, from the fish-pond to the ranger’s lodge. 
What was it, — ten Naps, or twenty? ” 

“Neither. It was five, and I paid it! ” was the curt 
answer. 

“Ain’t I the stupidest dog that ever sat for a borough?” 
said O’Shea, bursting out into one of his boisterous 
laughs. “Do you know, I’d have been quite willing to 
have bet you a cool hundred about that?” 

“And you ’d have lost,” said Heathcote, dryly. 


A DREARY FORENOON. 191 

“Not a doubt of it, and deserved it too,” said he, 
merrily. 

“I have brought you here one hundred and fifty,” said 
Heathcote, laying down three rouleaux on the table, “and, 
for the remainder, my note at three months. I hope that 
may not prove inconvenient? ” 

“Inconvenient, my boy! never say the word. Not to 
mention that fortune may take a turn one of these days, 
and all this California find its way back to its own 
diggings.” 

“I don’t mean to play any more.” 

“Not play any more! Do you mean to say that, because 
you have been once repulsed, you ’ll never charge again ? Is 
that your soldier’s pluck?” 

“There is no question here of my soldier’s pluck. I only 
said I ’d not play billiards.” 

“May I ask you one thing? How can you possibly 
expect to attain excellence in any pursuit, great or small, 
when you are so easily abashed ? ” 

“May I take the same liberty with you, and ask how can 
it possibly concern any one but myself that I have taken 
this resolution?” 

“There you have me! a hazard and no mistake! I may 
be your match at billiards ; but when it comes to repartee, 
you are the better man, Heathcote.” 

Coarse as the flattery was, it was not unpleasing. In- 
deed, in its very coarseness there was a sort of mock sin- 
cerity, just as the stroke of a heavy hand on your shoulder 
is occasionally taken for good fellowship, though you wince 
under the blow. Now Heathcote was not only gratified by 
his own smartness, but after a moment or two he felt half 
sorry he had been so “severe on the poor fellow.” He had 
over-shotted his gun, and there was really no necessity to 
rake him so heavily; and so, with a sort of blundering 
bashfulness, he said, — 

“You ’re not offended; you ’re not angry with me? ” 

“Offended! angry! nothing of the kind. I believe I am 
a peppery sort of fellow, — at least, down in the West 
there they say as much of me; but once a man is my 
friend, — once that I feel all straight and fair between us, 


192 


ONE OF THEM. 


— he may bowl me over ten times a day, and I ’ll never re- 
sent it.” 

There was a pause after this, and Heathcote found his 
position painfully awkward. He did not fancy exactly to 
repudiate the friendship thus assumed, and he certainly did 
not like to put his name to the bond ; and so he walked to 
the window and looked out with that half- hopeless vacuity 
bashful men are prone to. 

“What’s the weather going to do?” said he, carelessly. 
“More rain? ” 

“Of course, more rain! Amongst all the humbugs of the 
day, do you know of one equal to the humbug of the Italian 
climate? Where ’s the blue sky they rave about? ” 

“Not there, certainly,” said Heathcote, laughing, as he 
looked up at the leaden-colored canopy that lowered above 
them. 

“My father used to say,” said O’Shea, “that it was all a 
mistake to talk about the damp climate of Ireland; the real 
grievance was, that when it rained it always rained dirty 
water ! ” 

The conceit amused Heathcote, and he laughed again. 

“There it comes now, and with a will too! ” And at the 
same instant, with a rushing sound like hail, the rain 
poured down with such intensity as to shut out the hills 
directly in front of the windows. 

“You’re caught this time, Heathcote. Make the best of 
it, like a man, and resign yourself to eat a mutton-chop 
here with me at four o’clock; and if it clears in the evening, 
I ’ll canter back with you.” 

“No, no, the weather will take up; this is only a shower. 
They ’ll expect me back to dinner, besides. Confound it, 
how it does come down ! ” 

“Oh, faith!” said O’Shea, half mournfully, “I don’t 
wonder that you are less afraid of the rain than a bad 
dinner.” 

’ “No, it’s not that, — nothing of the kind,” broke in 
Heathcote, hurriedly; “at another time I should be de- 
lighted! Who ever saw such rain as that! ” 

“Look at the river too. See how it is swollen al- 
ready.” 


A DREARY FORENOON. 


193 


“Ah! I never thought of the mountain torrents,” said 
Heathcote, suddenly. 

“ They ’ll be coming down like regular cataracts by this 
time. I defy any one to cross at Borgo even now. Take 
my advice, Heathcote, and reconcile yourself to old Pan’s 
cookery for to-day.” 

“What time do you dine? ” 

“What time will suit you? Shall we say four or five?” 

“Four, if you ’ll permit me. Four will do capitally.” 

“That ’s all right. And now I ’ll just step down to Panini 
myself, and give him a hint about some Burgundy he has 
got in the cellar.” 

Like most men yielding to necessity, Heathcote felt dis- 
contented and irritated, and no sooner was he alone than 
he began to regret his having accepted the invitation. What 
signified a wetting? He was on horseback, to be sure, but 
he was well mounted, and it was only twelve miles, — an 
hour or an hour and a quarter’s sharp canter; and as to the 
torrents, up to the girths, perhaps, or a little beyond, — 
it could scarcely come to swimming. Thus he argued with 
himself as he walked to and fro, and chafed and fretted as 
he went. It was in this irritated state O’Shea found him 
when he came back. 

“We ’re all right. They ’ve got a brace of woodcock 
below stairs, and some Pistoja mutton ; and as I have for- 
bidden oil and all the grease-pots, we ’ll manage to get a 
morsel to eat.” 

“I was just thinking how stupid I was to — to — to put 
you to all this inconvenience,” said he, hastily changing a 
rudeness into an apology. 

“Isn’t it a real blessing for me to catch you?” cried 
O’Shea. “Imagine me shut up here by myself all day, no 
one to speak to, nothing to do, nothing to read but that old 
volume of the ‘ Wandering Jew,’ that I begin to know by 
heart, or, worse again, that speech of mine on the Italian 
question, that whenever I ’ve nearly finished it the villains 
are sure to do something or other that destroys all my pre- 
dictions and ruins my argument. What would have become 
of me to-day if you hadn’t dropped in?” 

Heathcote apparently did not feel called upon to answer 

13 


194 


ONE OF THEM. 


this inquiry, but walked the room moodily, with his hands in 
his pockets. 

O’Shea gave a little faint sigh, — such a sigh as a weary 
pedestrian may give, as, turning the angle of the way, he 
sees seven miles of straight road before him, without bend 
or curve. It was now eleven o’clock, and five dreary hours 
were to be passed before dinner-time. 

Oh, my good reader, has it been amongst your life’s expe- 
riences to have submitted to an ordeal of this kind, — to be 
caged up of a wet day with an unwilling guest, whom you 
are called on to amuse, but know not how to interest; to 
feel that you are bound to employ his thoughts, with the sad 
consciousness that in every pause of the conversation he is 
cursing his hard fate at being in your company; to know 
that you must deploy all the resources of your agreeability 
without even a chance of success, your very efforts to amuse 
constituting in themselves a boredom? It is as great a 
test of temper as of talent. Poor O’Shea, one cannot but 
pity you! To be sure, you are not without little aids to 
pass time, in the shape of cards, dice, and such-like. I am 
not quite sure that a travelling roulette-table is not some- 
where amongst your effects. But of what use are they all 
now ? None would think of a lecture on anatomy to a man 
who had just suffered amputation. 

No, no ! play must not be thought of, — it must be most 
sparingly alluded to even in conversation, — and so what re- 
mains? O’Shea was not without reminiscences, and he 
“went into them like a man.” He told scenes of early 
Trinity College life; gave sketches of his contemporaries, 
one or two of them now risen to eminence ; he gave anec- 
dotes of Gray’s Inn, where he had eaten his terms; of 
Templar life, its jollities and its gravities ; of his theatrical 
experiences, when he wrote the “Drama” for two weekly 
periodicals ; of his like employ when he reported prize-fights, 
boat-races, and pigeon-matches for “ Bell’s Life.” He then 
gave a sketch of his entrance into public life, with a picture 
of an Irish election, dashed off spiritedly and boldly ; but 
all he could obtain from his phlegmatic listener was a faint 
smile at times, and a low muttering sound, that resolved 
itself into, “What snobs!” 


A DREARY FORENOON. 


195 


At last he was in the House, dealing with great names 
and great events, which he ingeniously blended up with 
Bellamy’s and the oyster suppers below stairs; but it 
was no use, — they, too, were snobs ! It was all snobbery 
everywhere. Freshmen, Templars, Pugilists, Scullers, 
County Electors, and House of Commons celebrities, — all 
snobs ! 

O’Shea then tried the Turf, — disparagingly, as a great 
moralist ought. They were, as he said, a “bad lot; ” but 
he knew them well, and they “couldn’t hurt /iim.” He 
had a variety of curious stories about racing knaveries, and 
could clear up several mysterious circumstances, which all 
the penetration of the ‘ ‘ Ring ” had never succeeded in solv- 
ing. Heathcote, however, was unappeasable; and these, 
too, — trainers, jockeys, judges, and gentlemen, — they 
were all snobs ! 

It was only two o’clock, and there were two more mortal 
hours to get through before dinner. With a bright inspira- 
tion he bethought him of bitter beer. Oh, Bass ! ambrosia 
of the barrack-room, thou nectar of the do-nothings in this 
life, how gracefully dost thou deepen dulness into drowsiness, 
making stupidity but semi-conscious ! What a bond of union 
art thou between those who have talked themselves out, and 
would without thy consoling froth, become mutually odious ! 
Instead of the torment of suggestiveness which other drinks 
inspire, how gloriously lethargic are all thy influences, how 
mind-quelling, and how muddling ! 

There is, besides, a vague notion prevalent with your beer- 
drinker, that there is some secret of health in his indulgence, 
— that he is undergoing a sort of tonic regimen, something 
to make him more equal to the ascent of Mont Blanc, or the 
defeat of the Zouaves, and he grows in self-esteem as he sips. 
It is not the boastful sentiment begotten of champagne, or 
the defiant courage of port, but a dogged, resolute, resistant 
spirit, stout in its nature and bitter to the last ! 

And thus they sipped, and smoked, and said little to each 
other, and the hours stole over, and the wintry day darkened 
apace, and, at last, out of a drowsy nap over the fire, the 
waiter awoke them, to say dinner was on the table. 

“ You were asleep ! ” said O’Shea, to his companion. 


196 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ Yes, ’t was your snoring set me off ! ” replied Heathcote, 
stretching himself, as he walked to the window. “Raining 
just as hard as ever ! ” 

“ Come along,” said the other, gayly. “ Let us see what 
old Pan has done for us.” 




CHAPTER XXI. 

MR. O’SHEA UPON POLITICS, AND THINGS IN GENERAL. 

It was a most appetizing little dinner that was now set 
before the O’Shea and Charles Heathcote. The trout from 
Castellano and the mutton from Pistoja were each admi- 
rable ; and a brace of woodcocks, shot in the first snow- 
storm on the Carrara mountains, were served in a fashion 
that showed the cook had benefited by English teachings. 

“ There are worse places than this, after all ! ” said O’Shea, 
as he sat at one side of the fire, Heathcote opposite, and a 
small table liberally covered with decanters between them. 

“ Wonderful Burgundy this,” said Heathcote, gazing at 
his glass in the light. “What does he call it?” 

“ He calls it Lafitte. These fellows think all red wines 
come from the Bordeaux country. Here it is, — marked 
seven francs.” 

“ Cheap at double the price. My governor will take every 
bottle of it.” 

“Not before I leave, I hope,” said 0‘Shea, laughing. 
“ I trust he ’ll respect what they call vested interests.” 

“Oh, by the way,” said the other, indolently, “you are 
going? ” 

“Yes. Our party are getting uneasy, and I am con- 
stantly receiving letters pressing me to return to England.” 

“ Want you in the House, perhaps?” said Heathcote, as 
he puffed his cigar in lazy enjoyment. 

“Just so. You see, a parliamentary session is a sort of 
campaign in which every arm of warfare is needed. You 
want your great guns for the grand battles, your dashing 
cavalry charges for emergencies, and your light skirmishers 
to annoy the enemy and disconcert his advance.” 


198 


ONE OF THEM. 


“And which are you?^^ asked the other, in a tone of 
bantering indifference. 

“ Well, I ’m what you might call a mounted rifleman, — a 
dash of the dragoon with a spice of the sharpshooter.” 

“ Sharp enough, I take it,” muttered Heathcote, who be- 
thought him of the billiard-table, and the wonderful “haz- 
ards ” O’Shea used to accomplish. 

“You understand,” resumed the Member, confidentially, 
“I don’t come out on the Budget, or Reform, or things of 
that kind ; but I lie by till I hear some one make a blunder 
or a mistake, no matter how insignificant, and thenl”m down 
on him, generally with an anecdote — something he reminds 
me of — and for which I ’m sure to have the laugh against 
him. It’s so easy, besides, to make them laugh; the worst 
jokes are always successful in the House of Commons.” 

“ Dull fellows, I suppose? ” chimed in Heathcote. 

“No, indeed; not that. Go down with six or eight of 
them to supper, and you T1 say you never met pleasanter 
company. ’T is being caged up there all together, saying the 
same things over and over, that ’s what destroys them.” 

“ It must be a bore, I take it?” sighed out Heathcote. 

“ITl tell you what it is,” said O’Shea, as, in a voice of 
deepest confidence, he leaned over the table and spoke, — 
“I’ll tell you what it is. Did you ever play the game 
called Brag, with very little money in your pocket ? ” 

Heathcote nodded what might mean assent or the opposite. 

“That’s what Parliament is,” resumed O’Shea. “You 
sit there, night after night, year after year, wondering 
within yourself, ‘ Would it be safe for me to play this hand? 
Shall I venture now?’ You know well that if you do back 
your luck and lose, that it ’s all up with you forever, so that 
it ’s really a mighty serious thing to risk it. At last, 
maybe, you take courage. You think you ’ve got the cards ; 
it ’s half-past two o’clock ; the House is thin, and every one 
is tired and sleepy. Up you get on your legs to speak. 
You ’re not well down again, till a fellow from the back 
benches, you thought sound asleep, gets up and tears all you 
said to tatters, — destroys your facts, scatters your infer- 
ences, and maybe laughs at your figures of speech.” 

“ Not so pleasant, that,” said Heathcote, languidly. 


O’SHEA UPON POLITICS, AND THINGS IN GENERAL. 199 

“ Pleasant ! it *s the devil ! ” said 0‘Shea, violently ; for 
you hear the pen scratching away up in the reporters’ gallery, 
and you know it will be all over Europe next morning.” 

“Then why submit to all this?” asked Heathcote, more 
eagerly. 

“Just as I said awhile ago; because you might chance 
upon a good card, and ‘ brag ’ on it for something worth 
while. It’s all luck.” 

“Your picture of political life is not fascinating,” said 
Heathcote, coldly. 

“ After all, do you know, I like it,” resumed O’Shea. 
“ As long as you ’ve a seat in the House, there ’s no saying 
when you might n’t be wanted ; and then, when the session ’s 
over, and you go down to the country, you are the terror of 
all the fellows that never sat in Parliament. If they say 
a word about public matters, you put them down at once 
with a cool ‘ I assure you, sir, that ’s not the view we take 
of it in the House.’ ” 

“ I ’d say, ‘ What ’s that to me ? ’ ” 

“ No, you would n’t, — not a bit of it ; or, if you did, no- 
body would mind you, and for this reason, — it’s the real 
place, after all. Why do you pay Storr and Mortimer more 
than another jeweller? Just because you’re sure of the 
article. There now, that ’s how it is ! ” 

“ There ’s some one knocking at the door, I think,” said 
Heathcote ; but at the same instant Joe’s head appeared 
inside, with a request to be admitted. “ ’T is the telegraph,” 
said he, presenting a packet. 

“ I have asked for a small thing in Jamaica, some ten or 
twelve hundred a year,” whispered O’Shea to his friend. 
“ I suppose this is the reply.” And at the same time he 
threw the portentous envelope carelessly on the table. 

Either Heathcote felt no interest in the subject, or deemed 
it proper to seem as indifferent as his host, for he never 
took any further notice of the matter, but smoked away as 
before. 

“ You need n’t wait,” said 0‘Shea to Joe, who still 
lingered at the door. “ That fellow is bursting with curiosity 
now,” said he, as the man retired; “he’d give a year’s 
wages to know what was inside that envelope.” 


200 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ Indeed! ” sighed out Heathcote, in a tone that showed 
how little he sympathized with such eagerness. 

If O’Shea was piqued at this cool show of indifference, 
he resolved to surpass it by appearing to forget the theme 
altogether ; and, pushing the bottle across the table, he said, 
“ Did I ever tell you how it was I first took to politics? ” 

“No, I think not,” said Heathcote, listlessly. 

“Well, it was a chance, and a mere chance; this is the 
way it happened. Though I was bred to the Bar, I never 
did much at the law ; some say that an agreeable man, with 
a lively turn in conversation, plenty of anecdote, and a rich 
fancy, is never a favorite with the attorneys ; the rascals 
always think that such a man will never make a lawyer, and 
though they ’ll listen to his good stories by the hour in the 
Hall, devil a brief they ’ll give him, nor so much as a ‘ dec- 
laration.’ Well, for about five years I walked about in wig 
and gown, joking and quizzing and humbugging all the 
fellows that were getting business, and taking a circuit now 
and again, but all to no good ; and at last I thought I ’d 
give it up, and so my friends advised me, saying, ‘ Get 
something under the Government, Gorman ; a snug place 
with a few hundreds a year, and be sure take anything 
that ’s offered you to begin with.’ 

“Now there was a room in Dublin Castle — it’s the 
second down the corridor off the private stairs — that used 
to be called the Poker-room. It may be so still, for anything 
I know, and for this reason : it was there all the people ex- 
pecting places or appointments were accustomed to wait. 
It was a fine, airy, comfortable room, with a good carpet, 
easy-chairs, and always an excellent fire ; and here used to 
meet every day of their lives the same twenty or five-and- 
twenty people, one occasionally dropping off, and another 
coming in, but so imperceptibly and ^gradually that the 
gathering at last grew to be a sort of club, where they sat 
from about eleven till dark every day, chatting pleasantly 
over public and private events. It was thus found necessary 
to give it a kind of organization, and so we named for Presi- 
dent the oldest, — that is, the longest expectant of place, — 
who, bj^ virtue of his station, occupied the seat next the fire, 
and alone, of all the members, possessed the privilege of 








O’SHEA UPON POLITICS, AND THINGS IN GENERAL. 201 


poking it. The poker was his badge of ofiSce ; and the last 
act of his official life, whenever promotion separated him 
from us, was to hand the poker to his successor, with a 
solemn dignity of manner and a few parting words. I verily 
believe that most of us got to be so fond of the club that it 
was the very reverse of a pleasure when we had to leave it 
to become, maybe, a Police Inspector at Skibbereen, Post- 
master at Tory Island, or a Gauger at Innismagee ; and so 
we jogged on, from one Viceroy to another, very happy and 
contented. Well, it was the time of a great Marquis, — I 
won’t say who, but he was the fast friend of O’Connell, — 
and we all of us thought that there would be plenty of fine 
things given away, and the poker-room was crammed, and 
I was the President, having ascended the throne two years 
and a half before. It was somewhere early in March ; a cold 
raw day it was. I had scarcely entered the club, than a 
messenger bawled out, ‘Gorman O’Shea, — Mr. Gorman 
O’Shea.’ ‘Here he is,’ said I. ‘Wanted in the Chief Sec- 
retary’s oflSce,’ said he, ‘ immediately.’ I gave a knowing 
wink to the company around the fire, and left the room. 
Three mortal hours did I stand in the ante-room below, see- 
ing crowds pass in and out before I was called in ; and then, 
as I entered, saw a little wizened, sharp-faced man standing 
with his back to the fire paring his nails. He never so much 
as looked at me, but said in a careless, muttering sort of 
way,— 

“‘You’re the gentleman who wishes to go as resident 
magistrate to Oackatoro, ain’t you ? ’ 

“ ‘ Well, indeed, sir, I’m not quite sure,’ I began. 

“ ‘ Oh yes, you are,’ broke he in. ‘ I know all about you. 
Your name has been favorably mentioned to the office. You 
are Mr. O’Gorman — ’ 

“ ‘ Mr. Gorman O’Shea,’ said I, proudly. 

“ ‘ The same thing, Gorman O’Shea. I remember it now. 
Your appointment will be made out : five hundred a year, 
and a retiring pension after six years ; house, and an allow- 
ance for monkeys.’ 

“ ‘ A what? ’ asked I. 

“‘The place is much infested with a large species of 
ourang-outang, and the governor gives so much per head 


202 


ONE OF THEM. 


for destroying them. Mr. Simpson, in the office, will give 
you full information. You are to be at your post by the 1st 
of August.’ 

“ ‘ Might I make bold to ask where Whackatory is? ’ 

“ ‘ Oackatoro, sir,’ said he, proudly, ‘is the capital of 
Fighi. I trust I need not say where that is.’ 

“ ‘ By no means,’ said I, modestly ; and, muttering my 
thanks for the advancement, I backed out, almost deranged 
to think that I did n’t know where I was going. 

“ ‘ Where is it? What is it? How much is it, O’Shea?’ 
cried thirty ardent voices, as I entered the club. 

“‘It’s five hundred a year,’ said I, ‘-without counting 
the monkeys. It ’s a magistrate’s place ; but may a goose- 
berry skin make a nightcap for me if I know where the devil 
it is ! ’ 

“ ‘ But you have accepted ! ’ cried they out, all together. 

“ ‘ I have,’ said I. ‘I’m to be at Fighi, wherever that is, 
by the 1st of August. And now,’ said I, turning to the fire, 
and taking up the poker, ‘ there is nothing for me to do but 
resign this sacred symbol of my office into the hands of my 
successor.’ 

“ ‘ Where’s O’Dowd?’ shouted out the crowd. And they 
awoke out of a pleasant sleep a little old fellow that never 
missed his day for two years at the club. 

“ ‘ Gentlemen,’ said I, in a voice trembling with feeling, 
‘ the hour is come when my destiny is to separate me from 
you forever ; an hour that is equally full of the past and the 
future, and has even no small share of present emotions. If 
ever there were a human institution devised to cement to- 
gether the hearts and affections of men, to bind them into 
one indissoluble mass, and blend their instincts into identity, 
it is the club we have here. Here we stand, like the de- 
parted spirits at the Styx, waiting for the bark of Charon to 
ferry us over. To what, however? Is it to some blessed 
elysium of a Poor Law Commissioner’s place, or is it to 
some unknown fate in a distant land, with five hundred a 
year and an allowance for monkeys? That’s the question, 
there ’s the rub ! as Hamlet says.’ After dilating at large on 
this, I turned to O’Dowd. ‘ To your hands,’ said I, ‘ I com- 
mit this venerable relic : keep it, guard it, honor it, and pre- 


O’SHEA UPON POLITICS, AND THINGS IN GENERAL. 203 


serve it. Remember,’ said I, ‘ that when you stir those coals 
it is the symbol of keeping alive in the heart the sparks of 
an undying hope ; that though they may wet the slack and 
water the cinders of our nature, the fire within us will still 
survive, red, glowing, and generous. Is n’t that as fine, as 
great, glorious, and free, I ask you?’ 

“ ‘ Who is that fellow that ’s talking there, with a voice like 
Lablache ? ’ asked a big man at the door ; and then, as the 
answer was whispered in his ear, he said, ‘ Send him out 
here to me.’ 

“ Out I went, and found myself face to face with O’Connell. 

“ ‘ I want a man to stand for Drogheda to-morrow; the 
gentleman I expected cannot arrive there possibly before 
three. Will you address the electors, and speak till he 
comes? If he isn’t there by half-past three, you shall be 
returned ! ’ 

“ ‘ Done ! ’ said I. And by five o’clock on the following 
evening Gorman O’Shea was at the top of the poll and 
declared Member for Drogheda ! That was, I may say, the 
first lift I ever got from Fortune. May I never ! ” ex- 
claimed O’Shea, half angrily, — “ may I never, if he’s not 
asleep — and snoring ! These Saxons beat the world for 
stupidity.” 

The Member now suddenly bethought him that it would be 
a favorable moment to read his telegram, and so he tore 
open the envelope, and held it to the light. It was headed 
as usual, and addressed in full, showing that no parsimony 
defrauded him of his full title. The body of the despatch 
was, however, brief enough, and contained only one word, 
“Bosh!” It was clear, bold, and unmistakably “Bosh!” 
Could insolence go further than that? To send such a mes- 
sage a thousand miles, at the cost of one pound fourteen and 
sixpence ! 

“ What the deuce? you’ve nearly upset the table ! ” cried 
Heathcote, waking suddenly up, as O’Shea with a passion- 
ate gesture had thrown one of the decanters into the other’s 
lap. 

“ I was asleep, like yourself, I suppose,” said the Member, 
roughly. “ I must say, we are neither of us the very live- 
liest company.” 


204 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ It was that yarn of yours about attacking monkeys with 
a poker, or some stuff of that kind, set me off,” yawned 
Heathcote, drearily. “ I had not felt the least sleepy till 
then.” 

“Here, let us fill our glasses, and drink to the jolly 
time that is coming for us,” said O’Shea, with all his native 
recklessness. 

“ With all my heart ; but I wish 1 could guess from what 
quarter it’s coming,” said Heathcote, despondingly. 

If neither felt much disposed to converse, they each drank 
deeply ; and although scarcely more than a word or two would 
pass between them, they sat thus, hour after hour, till it was 
long past midnight. 

It was after a long silence between them that Heathcote 
said : “I never tried so hard in my life to get drunk, without 
success. I find it won’t do, though; I’m just as clear- 
headed and as low-spirited as when I started.” 

“Bosh!” muttered O’Shea, half dreamily. 

“It’s no such thing!” retorted Heathcote. “At any 
ordinary time one bottle of that strong Burgundy would have 
gone to my head ; and see, now I don’t feel it.” 

“ Maybe you’re fretting about something. It’s perhaps 
a weight on your heart — ” 

“That’s it! ’’sighed out the other, as though the very 
avowal were an inexpressible relief to him. 

“ Is it for a woman? ” asked O’Shea. 

The other nodded, and then leaned his head on his hand. 

“Upon my conscience, I sometimes think they’re worse 
than the Jews,” said the Member, violently ; “ and there ’s no 
being ‘ up to them.’ ” 

“ It ’s our own fault, then,” cried Heathcote ; “ because we 
never play fairly with them.” 

“Bosh! ” muttered O’Shea, again. 

“I defy you to deny it,” cried he, angrily. 

“ I ’d like a five-pound note to argue it either way,” said 
O’Shea. 

As if offended by the levity of the speech, Heathcote 
turned away and said nothing. 

“ When you get down to Borne, and have some fun over 
those ox-fences, you ’ll forget all about her, whoever she is,” 
said O’Shea. 


O’SHEA UPON POLITICS, AND THINGS IN GENERAL. 205 


“I’m for England to-morrow, and for India next week, if 
they ’ll have me.” 

“ Well, if that ’s not madness — ” 

“ No, sir, it is not,” broke in Heathcote, angrily ; “ nor will 
I permit you or any other man to call it so.” 

“ AVhat I meant was, that when a fellow had your prospects 
before him, India ought n’t to tempt him, even with the offer 
of the Governor-Generalship.” 

“ Forgive me my bad temper, like a good fellow,” cried 
Heathcote, grasping the other’s hand ; “ but, in honest truth, 
I have no prospects, no future, and there is not a more hope- 
less wretch to be found than the man before you.” 

O’Shea was very near saying “ Bosh ! ” once more, but he 
coughed it under. 

Like all bashful men who have momentarily given way to 
impatience, Charles Heathcote was over eager to obtain his 
companion’s good will, and so he dashed at once into a full 
confession of all the difficulties that beset, and all the cares 
that surrounded him. O’Shea had never known accurately, 
till now, the amount of May Leslie’s fortune, nor how com- 
pletely she was the mistress of her own fate. Neither had 
he ever heard of that strange provision in the will which 
imposed a forfeit upon her if unwilling to accept Charles 
Heathcote as her husband, — a condition which he shrewdly 
judged to be the very surest of all ways to prevent their 
marriage. 

“ And so you released her? ” cried he, as Heathcote finished 
his narrative. 

“Released her! No. I never considered that she was 
bound. How could I?” 

“Upon my conscience,” muttered the O’Shea, “it is a 
hard case — a mighty hard case — to see one’s way in ; for 
if, as you say, it ’s not a worthy part for a man to compel 
a girl to be his wife just because her father put it in his 
will, it ’s very cruel to lose her only because she has a fine 
property.” 

“It is for no such reason,” broke in Heathcote, half 
angrily. “I was unwilling — I am unwilling — that May 
Leslie should be bound by a contract she never shared 


206 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ That ’s all balderdash ! ” cried O’Shea, with energy. 

“ What do you mean, sir ? ” retorted the other, passionately. 

“ What I mean is this,” resumed he : “ that it ’s all balder- 
dash to talk of the hardship of doing things that we never 
planned out for ourselves. Sure, ain’t we doing them every 
moment of our lives ? Ain’t I doing something because you 
contrived it? and ain’t you doing something else because I 
left it in your way ? ” 

“ It comes to this, then, that you ’d marry a girl who did n’t 
care for you, if the circumstances were such as to oblige her 
to accept you ? ” 

“ Not absolutely, — not unreservedly,” replied O’Shea. 

“Well, what is the reservation? Let us hear it.” 

“ Her fortune ought to be suitable.” 

“ Oh, this is monstrous ! ” 

“Hear me out before you condemn me. In marriage, as 
in everything else, you must take it out in malt or in meal : 
don’t fancy that you ’re going to get love and money too. 
It ’s only in novels such luck exists.” 

“I’m very glad I do not share your sentiments,” said 
Charles, sternly. 

“ They’re practical, anyway. But now to another point. 
Here we are, sitting by the fire in all frankness and candor. 
Answer me fairly two questions : Have you given up the 
race ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“Well, then, have you any objection if I enter for the 
stakes myself?” 

“You! Do you mean that you would propose for May 
Leslie?” 

“I do; and, what’s more, I don’t despair of success, 
either.” 

An angry flush rose to Heathcote’s face, and for a mo- 
ment it seemed as if his passion was about to break forth ; 
but he mastered it, and, rising slowly, said: “ If I thought 
such a thing possible, it would very soon cure me of one 
sorrow.” After a pause, he added : “As for me, I have no 
permission to give or to withhold. Go, by all means, and 
make your offer. I only ask one thing : it is, that you will 
honestly tell me afterwards how it has been received.” 


O’SHEA UPON POLITICS, AND THINGS IN GENERAL. 207 

‘ ‘ That I pledge my word to. Where do you stop in 
Paris ?» 

“ At the Windsor.” 

“Well, you shall have a despatch from me, or see myself 
there, by Saturday evening ; one or the other I swear to.” 

“Agreed. I’ll not wish you success, for that would be 
hypocritical, but I ’ll wish you well over it ! ” And with 
this speech, uttered in a tone of jeering sarcasm, Heathcote 
said good-bye, and departed. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


THE PUBLIC SERVANT ABROAD. 

We scarcely thought that the distinguished public servant, 
Mr. Ogden, was likely to occupy once more any portion of 
our readers’ attention ; and yet it so fell out that this useful 
personage, being on the Continent getting up his Austria and 
Northern Italy for the coming session, received a few lines 
from the Earl of Sommerville, half mandatory, half entreat- 
ing, asking him to find out the young Marquis of Agincourt, 
and take him back with him to England. 

Now the Earl was a great man, for he was father-in-law of 
a Cabinet Minister, and related to half the leaders of the 
party, so that Mr. Ogden, however little the mission suited 
his other plans, was fain at once to accept it, and set out in 
search of his charge. 

We need not follow him in his pursuit through Lombardy 
and the Legations, down to Tuscany and Lucca, which latter 
city he reached at the close of a cold and dreary day of 
winter, cheered to him, however, by the certainty that he had 
at length come up with the object of his chase. 

It was a habit with Quackinboss, whenever he sent out 
Layton’s servant on an errand, to leave the house door ajar, 
that the sick man might not be disturbed by the loud sum- 
mons of the bell ; and so on the evening in question was it 
found by Mr. Ogden, who, after some gentle admonitions by 
his knuckles and some preparatory coughs, at last groped 
his way into the interior, and eventually entered the spacious 
sitting-room. Quackinboss had dined, and was seated at his 
wine beside an ample fireplace, with a blazing wood-fire. An 
old-fashioned screen sheltered him from the draught of the 
ill-fitting windows, while a comfortable buffalo rug was 
stretched under his feet. The Colonel was in his second 


THE PUBLIC SERVANT ABROAD. 


209 


cigar, and in the drowsy mood of its easy enjoyment, when 
the harsh accents of Mr. Ogden’s voice startled him, by ask- 
ing, “ Can you inform me if Lord Agincourt lives here?” 

“ You ’re a Britisher now, I expect? ” said the Colonel, as 
he slowly pulfed out a long volume of smoke, but never 
moved from his seat. 

“My question having the precedence, sir, it will be, per- 
haps, more regular to answer it first,” said Ogden, with a 
slow pertinacity. 



“Well, I ain’t quite sure o’ that, stranger,” drawled out 
the other. “Mine was a sort of an amendment, and so 
might be put before the original motion.” 

The remark chimed in well with the humor of one never 
indisposed to word-fencing, and so he deferred to the sug- 
gestion, told his name and his object in coming. ‘‘And 
now, sir,” added he, “I hope not to be deemed indiscreet in 
asking an equal candor from you.” 

“You ain’t a doctor?” asked Quackinboss. 

“No, sir; not a physician, at least.” 

14 



210 


ONE OE THEM. 


“That’s a pity,” said Quackinboss, slowly, as he brushed 
the ashes off his cigar. “Help yourself, stranger; that’s 
claret, t’other ’s the country wine, and this is cognac, — all 
three bad o’ their kind; but, as they say here to every- 
thing, ‘ Come si fa, eh? Come si fa! ’ ” 

“It is not from any disparagement of your hospitality, 
sir,” said Ogden, somewhat pompously, “that I am forced 
to recall you to my first question.” 

“Come si fa!” repeated Quackinboss, still ruminating 
over the philosophy of that expression, one of the very few 
he had ever succeeded in commiting to memory. 

“Am I to conclude, sir, that you decline giving me the 
information I ask ? ” 

“I ain’t in a witness-box, stranger. I ’m a-sittin’ at my 
own fireside. I ’m a-smokin’ my Virginian, where I ’ve a 
right to, and if you choose to come in neighborly-like, and 
take a liquor with me, we ’ll talk it over, whatever it is ; but 
if you think to come Holy Office and the Inquisition over 
Shaver Quackinboss, you ’ve caught the wrong squirrel by 
the tail, Britisher, you have ! ” 

“I must say, sir, you have put a most forced and unfair 
construction upon a very simple circumstance. I asked you 
if the Marquis of Agincourt resided here ? ” 

“And so you ain’t a doctor? ” said Quackinboss, 
pensively. 

“No, sir; I have already told you as much.” 

“Bred to the law, belike? ” 

“I have studied, sir, but not practised as a lawyer.” 

“Well, now, I expected you was!” said Quackinboss, 
with an air of self-satisfaction. “You chaps betray your- 
selves sooner than any other class in all creation ; as Flay 
Harris says: ‘ A lawyer is a fellow won’t drink out of the 
bung-hole, but must always be for tapping the cask for him- 
self.’ You ain’t long in these parts? ” 

“No, sir; a very short time, indeed,” said Ogden, 
drearily. 

“You needn’t sigh about it, stranger, though it is main 
dull in these diggin’s! Here ’s a people that don’t under- 
stand human natur’. What I mean, sir, is, human natur’ 
means goin’ ahead ; doin’ a somewhat your father and your 


THE PUBLIC SERVANT ABROAD. 


211 


grandfather never so much as dreamt of. But what are 
these critturs about? Jest showin’ the great things that 
was done centeries before they was born, — what pictures 
and statues and monuments their own ancestors could 
make, and of which they are jest showmen, nothing 
more ! ” 

“The Arts are Italy’s noblest inheritance,” said Ogden, 
sententiously. 

“That ain’t my platform, stranger. Civilization never 
got anything from painters or sculptors. They never taught 
mankind to be truthful or patient or self-denyin’ or chari- 
table. You may look at a bronze Hercules till you ’re black 
in the face, and it will never make you give a cent to a 
lame cripple. I ’ll go further again, stranger, and I ’ll say 
that there ain’t anything has thrown so many stumblin’- 
blocks before pro-gress as what you call the Arts, for there 
ain’t the equal o’ them to make people idlers. What’s all 
that loafing about galleries, I ask ye, but the worst of all 
idling ? If you want them sort of emotions, go to the real 
article, sir. Look at an hospital, that ’s more life-like than 
Gerard Dow and his dropsical woman, — ay, and may touch 
your heart, belike, before you get away.” 

“Though your conversation interests me much, sir, you 
will pardon my observing that I feel myself an intruder.” 

“No, you ain’t; I’m jest in a talkin’ humor, and I’d 
rather have you than that Italian crittur, as don’t under- 
stand me.” 

“Even the flattery of your observation, sir, cannot make 
me forget that another object claims my attention.” 

“For I ’ve remarked,” resumed Quackinboss, as if in con- 
tinuation of his speech, “that a foreigner that don’t know 
English wearies after a while in listenin’, even though 
you ’re tellin’ him very interesting things.” 

“I perceive, sir,’’ said Ogden, rising, “that I have cer- 
tainly been mistaken in the address. I was told that at 
the Palazzo Barsotti — ” 

“ Well, you ’re jest there; that ’s what they call this ram- 
shackle old crazy consarn. Their palaces, bein’ main like 
their nobility, would be all the better for a little washin’ 
and smartenin’ up.” 


212 


ONE OF THEM. 


“You can perhaps, however, inform me where Lord Agin- 
court does live ? ” 

“Well, he lives, as I may say, a little promiscuous. If 
he ain’t here^ it ’s because he ’s there ! You understand? ” 

“I cannot say very confidently that I do understand,” said 
Ogden, slowly. 

“It was well as you was n’t a practisin’ lawyer, Britisher, 
for you ain’t smart! that’s a fact. No, sir; you ain’t 
smart 1 ” 

“Your countrymen’s estimate of that quality has a high 
standard, sir,” said Ogden, haughtily. 

“What do you mean by my countrymen?” asked the 
other, quickly. 

“I ventured to presume that you were an American,” said 
Ogden, with a supercilious smile. 

“Well, stranger, you were main right; though darn me 
con-siderable if I know how you discovered it. Don’t you 
be a-goin’, now that we ’re gettin’ friendly together. Set 
down a bit. Maybe you ’d taste a morsel of something.” 

“Excuse me, I have just dined.” 

“Well, mix a summut in your glass. It ’s a rare pleasure 
to me, stranger, to have a chat with a man as talks like a 
Christian. I’m tired of ‘Come si fa,’ — that’s a fact, 
sir.” 

“I regret that I cannot profit by your polite invitation,” 
said Ogden, bowing stiffly. “I had been directed to this 
house as the residence of Lord Agincouit and his tutor ; and 
as neither of them live here — ” 

“Who told you that? There ’s one of them a-bed in that 
room there; he’s caught swamp-fever, and it’s gone up to 
the head. He ’s the tutor, — poor fellow.” 

“And the Marquis? ” 

“The Marquis! he’s a small parcel to have such a big 
direction on him, ain’t he? He ’s at a villa, a few miles off; 
but he ’ll be over here to-morrow morning.” 

“You are quite sure of that?” asked Ogden. 

“Yes, sir,” said Quackinboss, drinking off his glass, and 
nodding, in token of salutation. 

“I must beg you to accept my excuses for this intrusion 
on my part,” began Ogden. 


THE PUBLIC SERVANT ABROAD. 


213 


“Jest set you down there again; there ’s a point I ’d like 
to be cleared up about. I *m sure you ’ll not refuse me. 
Jest set down.” 

Ogden resumed his seat, although with an air and manner 
of no small disinclination. 

“No wine, thank you. Excuse me,” said he, stiffly, as 
Quackinboss tried to fill his glass. 

“You remarked awhile ago,” said Quackinboss, slowly, 
and like a man weighing all his words, “that I was an 
American born. Now, sir, it ain’t a very likely thing that 
any man who was ever raised in the States is goin’ to deny 
it. It ain’t, I say, very probable as he ’d say I ’m a Chinese, 
or a Mexican, or a Spaniard ; no, nor a Britisher. What- 
ever we do in this life, stranger, one thing, I suppose, is 
pretty certain, — we don’t say the worst of ourselves. Ain’t 
that your platform, sir?” 

“I agree to the general principle.” 

“Agreein’, then, to the gen’ral principle, here ’s where we 
go next, for I ain’t a-goin’ to let you off, Britisher; I’ve 
got a harpoon in you now, and I ’ll tow you after me into 
shoal water; see if I don’t. Agreein’, as we say, to the 
gen’ral principle, that no man likes to make his face blacker 
than it need be, what good could it do me to say that I 
was n’t born a free citizen of the freest country of the 
universe ? ” 

“I am really at a loss to see how I am interested in this 
matter. I have not, besides, that perfect leisure abstract 
discussion requires. You will forgive me if I take my 
leave.” He moved hastily towards the door as he spoke, 
followed by Quackinboss, whose voice had now assumed the 
full tones and the swelling modulations of public oratory. 

“ That great land, sanctified by the blood of the pilgrim 
fathers, and whose proudest boast it is that from the first 
day, when the star-spangled banner of Freedom dallied with 
the wind and scorned the sun, waving its barred folds over 
the heads of routed enemies, — to that glorious consumma- 
tion, when, from the rugged plains of New England to the 
golden groves of Florida — ” 

“Good-bye, sir, — good-evening,” said Ogden, passing 
out and gaining the landing-place. 


214 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ — One universal shout, floating over the Atlantic waters, 
pi'oclaimed to the Old World that the ‘ Young ’ was alive 
and kickin’ — ** 

“Good-night,” cried Ogden, from the bottom of the stairs; 
and Quackinboss re-entered his chamber and banged the door 
after him, muttering something to himself about Lexington 
and Concord, Columbus and Quincy Adams. 


CHAPTER XXm 


BROKEN TIES. 

It was a sorrowful morning at the Villa Caprini on the 22d 
of November. Agincourt had come to take his last farewell 
of his kind friends, half heart-broken that he was not per- 
mitted even to see poor Layton before he went. Quackin- 
boss, however, was obdurate on the point, and would suffer 
no one to pass the sick man’s door. Mr. Ogden sat in the 
carriage as the boy dashed hurriedly into the house to say 
“Good-bye.” Room after room he searched in vain. No 
one to be met with. What could it mean ? — the drawing- 
room, the library, all empty ! 

“Are they all out, Fenton?” cried he, at last. 

“No, my Lord, Sir William was here a moment since. 
Miss Leslie is in her room, and Mrs. Morris, I think, is in 
the garden.” 

To the garden he hurried off at once, and just caught 
sight of Mrs. Morris and Clara, as, side by side, they 
turned the angle of an alley. 

“At last! ” cried he, as he came up with them. “At last 
I have found some one. Here have I been this half-hour in 
search of you all, over house and grounds. Why, what ’s 
the matter? — what makes you look so grave? ” 

“Don’t you know? — haven’t you heard?” cried Mrs. 
Morris, with a sigh. 

“Heard what? ” 

“ Heard that Charles has gone off, — started for England 
last night, with the intention of joining the first regiment 
ordered for India.” 

“I wish to Heaven he ’d have taken me with him! ” cried 
the boy, eagerly. 


216 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Very possibly,” said she, dryly; “but Charles was cer- 
tainly to blame for leaving a home of happiness and affection 
in this abrupt way. I don’t see how poor Sir William is 
ever to get over it, not to speak of leaving May Leslie. I 
hope, Agincourt, this is not the way you ’ll treat the young 
lady you ’re betrothed to.” 

“I ’ll never get myself into any such scrape, depend on ’t. 
Poor Charley!” 

“Why not poor May? ” whispered Mrs. Morris. 

“Well, poor May, too, if she cared for him; but I don’t 
think she did.” 

“Oh, what a shame to say so! I’m afraid you young 
gentlemen are brought up in great heresies nowadays, and 
don’t put any faith in love.” 

Had the boy been an acute observer, he would have 
marked how little the careless levity of the remark coin- 
cided with the assumed sadness of her former manner; but 
he never noticed this. 

“Well,” broke in the boy, bluntly, “why not marry him, 
if she cared for him? I don’t suppose you’ll ask me to 
believe that Charley would have gone away if she had n’t 
refused him ? ” 

“What a wily serpent it is!” said Mrs. Morris, smiling; 
“wanting to wring confidences from me whether I will 
or no.” 

“No. I ’ll be hanged if I am wily, — am I, Clara? ” 

What Clara answered was not very distinct, for her face 
was partly covered with her handkerchief. 

“There, you see Clara is rather an unhappy witness to 
call to character. You ’d better come to me for a reputa- 
tion,” said Mrs. Morris, laughingly. 

“It’s no matter, I’m going away now,” said he, sorrow- 
fully. 

“Going away, — where?” 

“Going back to England; they’ve sent a man to capture 
me, as if I was a wild beast, and he ’s there at the door now, 

— precious impatient, too, I promise you, because I ’m 
keeping the post-horses waiting.” 

“ Oh, make him come in to luncheon. Hd ’s a gentleman, 

— isn’t he? ” 


BROKEN TIES. 


217 


“I should think he is! A great political swell, too, a 
something in the Admiralty, or the Colonies, or wherever 
it is.” 

“Well, just take Clara, and she’ll find out May for you, 
and send your travelling-companion into the garden here. 
I’ll do the honors to him till lunch-time.” And Mrs. 
Morris now turned into a shady walk, to think over what 
topics she should start for the amusement of the great offi- 
cial from Downing Street. 

If we were going to tell tales of her, — which we are not, 

— we might reveal how it happened that she had seen a 
good deal of such sort of people, at one era of her life, 
living in a Blue-Book atmosphere, and hearing much out of 
“Hansard.” We merely mention the fact; as to the how, it 
is not necessary to refer to it. Not more are we bound to 
say why she did not retain for such high company what, in 
French, is called “the most distinguished consideration,” 

— why, on the contrary, she thought and pronounced them 
the most insupportable of all bores. Our readers cannot 
fail to have remarked and appreciated the delicate reserve 
we have unvaryingly observed towards this lady, — a re- 
spectful courtesy that no amount of our curiosity could 
endanger. Now, “charming women,” of whom Mrs. M. 
was certainly one, have a great fondness for little occasional 
displays of their fascinations upon strangers. Whether it 
is that they are susceptible of those emotions of vanity that 
sway smaller natures, or whether it be merely to keep their 
fascinations from rusting by want of exercise, is hard to 
say; but so is the fact, and the enjoyment is all the higher 
when, by any knowledge of a speciality, they can astonish 
their chance acquaintance. For what Lord Agincoiirt had 
irreverently styled the “great political swell,” she there- 
fore prepared herself with such memories as some years 
of life had stored for her. “He’ll wonder,” thought she, 
“where I came by all my Downing Street slang. I ’ll cer- 
tainly puzzle him with my cant of office.” And so think- 
ing, she walked briskly along in the clear frosty air over the 
crisped leaves that strewed the walk, till she beheld a per- 
son approaching from the extreme end of the alley. 

The distance between them was yet considerable, and yet 


218 


ONE OF THEM. 


how was it that she seemed to falter in her steps, and sud- 
denly, clasping her heart with both hands, appeared seized 
with a sort of convulsion? At the same instant she threw 
a terrified glance on every side, and looked like one prepared 
for sudden flight. To these emotions, more rapid in their 
course than it has taken time to describe them, succeeded a 
cold, determined calm, in which her features regained their 
usual expression, though marked by a paleness like death. 

The stranger came slowly forward, examining the trees 
and flowers as he passed along, and peering with his double 
eye-glass to read the names attached to whatever was rarest. 
Affecting to be gathering flowers for a bouquet, she stooped 
frequently, till the other came near, and then, as he removed 
his hat to salute her, she threw back her veil and stood, 
silent, before him. 

“Madam! madam!” cried he, in a voice of such intense 
agony as showed that he was almost choked for utterance. 
“How is this, madam?” said he, in a tone of indignant 
demand. “How is this? ” 

“I have really no explanation to offer, sir,” said she, in 
a cold, low voice. “My astonishment is great as your 
own ; this meeting is not of my seeking. I need scarcely 
say so much.” 

“I do not know that! — by Heaven I do not! ” cried he, 
in a passion. 

“You are surely forgetting, sir, that we are no longer 
anything to each other, and thus forgetting the deference 
due to me as a stranger? ” 

“I neither forget nor forgive! ” said he, sternly. 

“Happily, sir, you will not be called upon to do either. 
I no longer bear your name — ” 

“Oh that you had never borne it! ” cried he, in agony. 

“There is at least one sentiment we agree in, sir, — would 
that I never had ! ” said she ; and a slight — very slight — 
tremor shook the words as she spoke them. 

“Tell me at once, madam, what do you mean by this sur- 
prise ? I know all your skill in accidents^ — what does this 
one portend ? ” 

“You are too flattering, sir, believe me,” said she, with 
an easy smile. “I have plotted nothing, — I have nothing 


BROKEN TIES. 


219 


to plot, — at least, in which you are concerned. The 
unhappy bond that once united us is loosed forever ; but I 
do not see that even harsh memories are to suggest bad 
manners.” 

“I am no stranger to your flippancy, madam. You have 
made me acquainted with all your merits.” 

“You were going to say virtues, George, — confess you 
were?” said she, coquettishly. 

“Gracious mercy, woman! can you dare — ” 

“My dear Mr. Ogden,” broke she in, gently, “I can dare 
to be that which you have just told me was impossible for 
you, — forgetful and forgiving.” 

“Oh, madam, this is, indeed, generous!” said he, with a 
bitter mockery. 

“Well, sir, it were no bad thing if there were a little gen- 
erosity between us. Don’t fancy that all the forgiveness 
should come from you; don’t imagine that /am not plaintiff 
as well as defendant.” Then, suddenly changing her tone 
to one of easy indifference, she said, “And so your impres- 
sion is, sir, that the Cabinet will undergo no change ? ” 

She looked hurriedly round as she spoke, and saw Sir 
William Heathcote coming rapidly towards them. 

“Sir William, let me present to you Mr. Ogden, a name 
you must be familiar with in the debates,” said she, intro- 
ducing them. 

“I hope Lord Agincourt has not been correct in telling 
me that you are pressed for time, Mr. Ogden. I trust you 
will give us at least a day.” 

“Not an hour, not a minute, sir. I mean,” added he, 
ashamed of his violence, “I have not an instant to spare.” 

“You’ll scarcely profit by leaving us this morning,” re- 
sumed Sir William. “The torrents between this and Mass A 
are all full, and perfectly impassable.” 

“Pray accept Sir William’s wise counsels, sir,” said she, 
with the sweetest of all smiles. 

A stern look, and a muttered something inaudible, was 
all his reply. 

“What a dreary servitude must political life be, when 
one cannot bestow a passing hour upon society ! ” said she, 
plaintively. 


220 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Mr. Ogden could tell us that the rewards are worthy of 
the sacrifices,” said Sir William, blandly. 

“Are they better than the enjoyments of leisure, the 
delights of friendship, and the joys of home? ” asked she, 
half earnestly. 

“By Heaven, madam!” cried Ogden, and then stopped; 
when Sir William broke in, — 

“Mrs. Morris is too severe upon public men. They 
are rarely called on to make such sacrifices as she speaks 
of.” 

While thus talking, they had reached the terrace in front 
of the house, where Agincourt was standing between May 
and Clara, holding a hand of each. 

“Are you ready?” asked Ogden, abruptly. 

“Ready; but very sorry to go,” said the boy, bluntly. 

“May we not offer you some luncheon, Mr. Ogden? You 
will surely take a glass of wine with us?” 

“Nothing, sir, nothing. Nothing beneath the same roof 
with this woman,” muttered he, below his breath; but her 
quick ears caught the words, and she whispered, — 

“An unkind speech, George, — most unkind! ” 

While Agincourt was taking his last affectionate farewells 
of the girls and Sir William, Mr. Ogden had entered the 
carriage, and thrown himself deeply back into a corner. 
Mrs. Morris, however, leaned over the door, and ooked 
calmly, steadfastly at him. 

“Won’t you say good-b5"e?” said she, softly. 

A look of insulting contempt was all his answer. 

“Not one kind word at parting? Well, I am better than 
you; here ’s my hand.” And she held out her fair and taper 
fingers towards him. 

“Fiend, — not woman! ” was his muttered expression as 
he turned away. 

“And a pleasant journey,” said she, as if finishing a 
speech; while turning, she gave her hand to Agincourt. 
“Yes, to be sure, you may take a boy’s privilege, and give 
me a kiss at parting,” said she; while the youth, blushing 
a deep crimson, availed himself of the permission. 

“There they go,” said Sir William, as the horses rattled 
down the avenue; “and a finer boy and a grumpier com- 


BROKEN TIES. 


221 


panion it has rarely been my lot to meet with. A thousand 
pardons, my dear Mrs. Morris, if he is a friend of yours.” 

“I knew him formerly,” said she, coldly. “I can’t say 
I ever liked him.” 

“I remember his name,” said Sir William, in a sort of 
hesitating way ; “there was some story or other about him, 
— either his wife ran away, or he eloped with somebody’s 
wife.” 

“I’m sure it must have been the former,” said Mrs. 
Morris, laughing. “Poor gentleman, he does not give one 
the impression of a Lothario. But whom have we here? 
The O’Shea, I declare! Look to your heart. May dearest; 
take my word for it, he never turned out so smartly without 
dreams of conquest.” Mr. O’Shea cantered up at the same 
moment, followed by Joe in a most accurate “get up” as 
groom, and, dismounting, advanced, hat in hand, to salute 
the party. 

There are blank days in this life of ours in which even a 
pleasant visitor is a bore, — times in which dulness and seclu- 
sion are the best company, and it is anything but a boon to 
be broken in upon. It was the O’Shea’s evil fortune to have 
fallen on one of these. It was in vain he recounted his club 
gossip about politics and party to Sir William; in vain he 
told Mrs. Morris the last touching episode of town scandal; 
in vain, even, did he present a fresh bouquet of lily-of-the- 
valley to May : each in turn passed him on to the other, till 
he found himself alone with Clara, who sat sorrowfully over 
the German lesson Layton was wont to help her with. 

“What ’s the matter with you all? ” cried he, half angrily, 
as he walked the room from end to end. “Has there any 
misfortune happened ? ” 

“Charley has left us, Agincourt is just gone, the pleasant 
house is broken up; is not that enough to make us sad?” 
said she, sorrowfully. 

“ If you ever read Tommy Moore, you ’d know it was only 
another reason to make the most of the friends that were left 
behind,” said he, adjusting his cravat at the glass, and 
giving himself a leer of knowing recognition. “That’s the 
time of day, Clara ! ” 

She looked at him, somewhat puzzled to know whether he 


222 


ONE OF THEM. 


had alluded to his sentiment, his whiskers, which he was 
now caressing, or the French clock on the mantelpiece. 

“Is that one of Layton’s?” said he, carelessly turning 
over a water-colored sketch of a Lucchese landscape. 

“Yes,” said she, replacing it carefully in a portfolio. 

“ He won’t do many more of them, I suspect.” 

‘ ‘ How so ? — why ? — what do you mean ? ” cried she, 
grasping his arm, while a death-like paleness spread over 
her features. 

“Just that he’s going as fast as he can. What’s the 
mischief! is it fainting she is?” 

With a low, weak sigh, the girl had relaxed her hold, and, 
staggering backwards, sunk senseless on the floor. O’Shea 
tugged violently at the bell : the servant rushed in, and im- 
mediately after Mrs. Morris herself ; but by this time Clara 
had regained consciousness, and was able to utter a few 
words. 

“ I was telling her of Layton’s being so ill,” began he, in 
a whisper, to Mrs. Morris. 

“Of course you were,” said she, pettishly. “For an 
inconvenience or an indiscretion, what can equal an Irish- 
man? ” 

The speech was uttered as she led her daughter away, 
leaving the luckless O’Shea alone to ruminate over the 
politeness. 

There it is ! ” cried he, indignantly. From the ‘ Times ’ 
down to the Widow Morris, it ’s the same story, — the Irish 1 
the Irish ! — and it ’s no use fighting against it. Smash the 
Minister in Parliament, and you ’ll be told it was a speech 
more adapted to an Irish House of Commons ; break the 
Sikh squares with the bayonet, and the cry is ‘ Tipperary 
tactics.’ Is n’t it a wonder how we bear it I I ask any 
man, did he ever hear of patience like ours?” 

It was just as his indignation had reached this crisis that 
May Leslie hurriedly came into the room to search for a 
locket Clara had dropped when she fainted. While O’Shea 
assisted her in her search, he bethought whether the favor- 
able moment had not arrived to venture on the great question 
of his own fate. It was true, he was still smarting under a 
national disparagement; but the sarcasm gave a sort of 


BROKEN TIES. 


223 


reckless energy to his purpose, and he muttered, “ Now, or 
never, for it ! ” 

“ I suppose it was a keepsake,’’ said he, as he peered 
under the tables after the missing object. 

“ I believe so. At least, the poor child attaches great 
value to it.” 

“Oh dear!” sighed O’Shea. “If it was an old bodkin 
that was given me by one I loved, I’d go through fire and 
water to get possession of it.” 

“Indeed!” said she, smiling at the unwonted energy of 
the protestation. 

“I would,” repeated he, more solemnly. “It’s not the 
value of the thing itself I ’d ever think of. There ’s the ring 
was wore by my great-grandmother Ram, of Ram’s Moun- 
tain ; and though it ’s a rose-amethyst, worth three hundred 
guineas, it’s only as a family token it has merit in my 
eyes.” 

Now this speech, discursive though it seemed, was artfully 
intended by the Honorable Member, for while incidentally 
throwing out claims to blood and an ancestry, it cunningly 
insinuated what logicians call the a fortiori^ — how the man 
who cared so much for his grandmother would necessarily 
adore his wife. 

“ We must give it up, I see,” said May. “ She has evi- 
dently not lost it here.” 

“ And it was a heart, you say ! ” sighed the Member. 

“Yes, a little golden heart with a ruby clasp.” 

“Oh dear! And to think that I’ve lost my own in the 
self-same spot.” 

“ Yours ! Why, had you a locket too? ” 

“No, my angel!” cried he, passionately, as he clasped 
her hand, and fell on his knee before her, “ but my heart, — 
a heart that lies under your feet this minute ! There, don’t 
turn away, — don’t ! May I never, if I know what ’s come 
over me these two months back ! Night or day, it is the one 
image is always before me, — one voice always in my ears.” 

“ How tiresome that must be ! ” said she, laughing merrily. 
“ There, pray let go my hand ; this is only folly, and not in 
very good taste, either.” 

“ Folly, you call it? Love is madness, if you like. Out 


224 


ONE OF THEM. 


of this spot I ’ll never stir till I know my fate. Say the word, 
and I ’m the happiest man or the most abject creature — 
You ’re laughing again, — I wonder how you can be so 
cruel ! ” 

“ Really, sir, if I regard your conduct as only absurd, it 
is a favorable view of it,” said she, angrily. 

“ Do, darling of my soul! light of my eyes I loadstar of 
my whole destiu}^ ! — do take a favorable view of it,” said 
he, catching at her last words. 

“I have certainly given you no pretence to make me 
ridiculous, sir,” said she, indignantly. 

“Ridiculous! ridiculous!” cried he, in utter amazement. 

Sure it’s my hand I’m offering you. What were you 
thinking of ? ” 

“ I believe I apprehend you aright, sir, and have only to 
say, that, however honored by your proposal, it is one I 
must decline.” 

, “ Would n’t you tell me why, darling? Would n’t you say 
your reasons, my angel? Don’t shake your head, my adored 
creature, but turn this way, and say, ‘ Gorman, your affec- 
tion touches me : I see your love for me ; but I ’m afraid of 
you : you ’re light and fickle and inconstant ; you ’re spoiled 
by fiattery among the women, and deference and respect 
amongst the men. What can I hope from a nature so 
pampered ? ’ ” 

“No, in good truth, Mr. O’Shea, not one of these objec- 
tions have occurred to me ; my answer was dictated by much 
narrower and more selfish considerations. At all events, sir, 
it is final ; and I need onlj^ appeal to your sense of good- 
breeding never to resume a subject I have told you is dis- 
tasteful to me.” And with a heightened color, and a glance 
which certainly betokened no softness, she turned away and 
left him. 

“Distasteful! distasteful!” muttered he over her last 
words. “ Women ! women ! women ! there ’s no knowing ye 
— the devil a bit ! What you ’d like, and what you would n’t 
is as great a secret as the philosopher’s stone ! Heigho ! ” 
sighed he, as he opened his cravat, and drew in a long breath. 
“ I did n’t take a canter like that, these five years, and it has 
sent all the blood to my head. I hope she ’ll not mention it. 


BROKEN TIES. 


225 


I hope she won’t tell it to the widow,” muttered he, as he 
walked to the window for air. “ She^s the one would take 
her own fun out of it. Upon my conscience, this is mighty 
like apoplexy,” said he, as, sitting down, he fanned himself 
with a book. 

“ Poor Mr. O’Shea! ” said a soft voice; and, looking up, 
he saw Mrs. Morris, as, leaning over the back of his chair, 
she bent on him a look half quizzical and half compassionate. 
“ Poor Mr. O’Shea I ” 

“ Why so? How?” asked he, with an affected jocularity. 

“ Well,” said she, with a faint sigh, “ you ’re not the first 
man has drawn a blank in the lottery.” 

‘‘I suppose not,” muttered he, half sulkily. 

“ Nor will it prevent you trying your luck another time,” 
said she, in the same tone. 

‘‘What did she say? How did she mention it?” whis- 
pered he, confidentially. 

“ She did n’t believe you were serious at first ; she thought 
it a jest. Why did you fall on your knees ? it ’s never done 
now, except on the stage.” 

“How did I know that?” cried he, peevishly. “One 
ought to be proposing every day of the week to keep up with 
the fashions.” 

“ If you had taken a chair at her side, a little behind hers, 
so as not to scrutinize her looks too closely, and stolen your 
hand gently forward, as if to touch the embroidery she was 
at work on, and then, at last, her hand, letting your voice 
grow lower and softer at each word, till the syllables would 
seem to drop, distilled from your heart — ” 

“ The devil a bit of that I could do at all,” cried he, im- 
patiently. “ If I can’t make the game off the balls,” said 
he, taking a metaphor from his billiard experiences, “I’m 
good for nothing. But will she come round? Do you think 
she ’ll change? ” 

“ No ; I ’m afraid not,” said she, shaking her head. 

“Faix! she might do worse,” said he, resolutely. “Do 
you know that she might do worse? If the mortgages was 
off, O’Shea-Ville is seventeen hundred a year; and, for 
family, we beat the county.” 

“ I ’ve no doubt of it,” replied she, calmly. 

15 


226 


ONE OF THEM. 


“There was ancestors of mine hanged by Henry the 
Second, and one was strangled in prison two reigns before,** 
said he, proudly. “The O’Sheas was shedding their blood 
for Ireland eight centuries ago! Did you ever hear of 
Mortagh Dhub O’Shea ? ” 

“ Never ! ” said she, mournfully. 

“ There it is,” sighed he, drearily ; “ mushrooms is bigger, 
nowadays, than oak-trees.” And with this dreary reflection 
he arose and took his hat. 

“ Won’t you dine here? I’m sure they expect you to stop 
for dinner,” said she ; but whether a certain devilry in her 
laughing eye made the speech seem insincere, or that his own 
distrust prompted it, he said, — 

“ No, I ’ll not stop ; I could n’t eat a bit if I did.” 

“ Come, come, you mustn’t take it to heart in this way,” 
said she, coaxingly. 

“ Do you think you could do anything for me? ” said he, 
taking her hand in his ; “ for, to tell truth, it’s my pride is 
hurt. As we say in the House of Commons, now that my 
name is on the Bill, I ’d like to carry it through. You under- 
stand that feeling ? ” 

“ Perhaps I do,” said she, doubtfully, while, throwing 
herself into a chair, she leaned back, so as to display a little 
more than was absolutely and indispensably necessary of a 
beautifully rounded ankle and instep. Mr. O’Shea saw it, 
and marked it. There was no denying she was prettv, — 
pretty, too, in those feminine and delicate graces which have 
special attractions for men somewhat hackneyed in life, and 
a “little shoulder-sore with the collar” of the world. As 
the Member gazed at the silky curls of her rich auburn hair, 
the long fringes that shadowed her fair cheeks, and the grace- 
ful lines of her beautiful figure, he gave a sigh, — one of 
those a man inadvertently heaves when contemplating some 
rare object in a shop-window, which his means forbid him to 
purchase. It was only as he heaved a second and far deeper 
one, that she looked up, and with an arch drollery of expres- 
sion all her own, said, as if answering him, “ Yes, you are 
quite right; but you know you could n’t afford it.” 

“What do you mean, — not afford what?” cried he, 
blushing deeply. 


BROKEN TIES. 227 

“ Nor could /, either,” continued she, heedless of his 
interruption. 

“ Faith, then,” cried he, with energy, “ it was just what I 
was thinking of.” 

“But, after all,” said she, gravely, “it wouldn’t do; 
privateers must never sail in company. I believe there’s 
nothing truer than that.” 

He continued to look at her, with a strange mixture of 
admiration and astonishment. 

“And so,” said she, rising, “let us part good friends, 
who may hope each to serve the other one of these days. Is 
that a bargain?” And she held out her hand. 

“I swear to it! ” cried he, pressing his lips to her fingers. 
“And now that you know my sentiments — ” 

“Hush!” cried she, with a gesture of warning, for she 
heard the voices of servants in the corridor. “ Trust me ; 
and good-bye ! ” 

“ One ought always to have an Irishman amongst one’s 
admirers,” said she, as, once more alone, she arranged her 
ringlets before the glass; “if there’s any fighting to be 
done, he’s sure not to fail you.” 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


A DAY IN EARLY SPRING. 

That twilight of the year called spring, most delightful of 
all seasons, is scarcely known in Italy. Winter dies lan- 
guidly away, and summer bursts forth at once, and in a few 
days the trees are clothed in full foliage, the tall grass is 
waving, and panting lizards sun themselves on the rocks 
over which so lately the mountain torrent was foaming. 
There are, however, a few days of transition, and these are 
inexpressibly delicious. The balmy air scented with the 
rose and the violet stirs gently through the olive-trees, shak- 
ing the golden limes amidst the dark leaves, and carrying 
away the sweet perfume on its breath ; rivulets run bright 
and clear through rocky channels, mingling their murmurs 
with the early cicala. The acacia sheds its perfume on the 
breeze, — a breeze so faint, as though it loved to linger on 
its way; and so, above, the lazy clouds hang upon the 
mountains, or float in 'fragments out to sea, as day wears on. 
What vitality there is in it all ! — the rustling leaves, the 
falling water, the chirping birds, the softly plashing tide, all 
redolent of that happy season, — the year’s bright youth. 

On such a day as this Alfred Layton strolled languidly 
through the grounds of Marlia. Three months of severe 
illness had worn him to a shadow, and he walked with the 
debility of one who had just escaped from a sick-room. The 
place was now deserted. The Heathcotes had gone to Rome 
for the winter, and the Villa was shut up and untenanted. 
It had been a cherished wish of poor Layton to visit the spot 
as soon as he could venture abroad ; and Quackinboss, the 
faithful friend who had nursed him through his whole illness, 
had that day yielded to his persuasion and brought him 
there. 


A DAY IN EARLY SPRING. 


229 


Who could have recognized the young and handsome 
youth in the broken-down, feeble, careworn man who now 
leaned over the palings of a little flower-garden, and gazed 
mournfully at a rustic bench beneath a lime-tree? Ay, there 
it was, in that very spot, one chapter of his life was flnished. 
It was there she had refused him ! He had no right, it is 
true, to have presumed so highly ; there was nothing in his 
position to warrant such dai-ing ; but had she not encouraged 
him ? That was the question ; he believed so, at least. She 
had seen his devotion to her, and had not repulsed it. Nay, 
more, she had suffered him to speak to her of feelings and 
emotions, of hopes and fears and ambitions, that only they 
are led to speak who talk to willing ears. Was this encour- 
agement, or was it the compassionate pity of one, to him, so 
friendless and alone? May certainly knew that he loved 
her. She had even resented his little passing attentions to 
Mrs. Morris, and was actually jealous of the hours he be- 
stowed on Clara ; and yet, with all this, she had refused 
him, and told him not to hope that, even with time, her 
feeling towards him should change. “ How could it be 
otherwise?” cried he to himself. “What was I, to have 
pretended so highly ? Her husband should be able to offer 
a station superior to her own. So thought she, too, herself. 
How her words ring in my ears even yet : ‘ I do love rank ’ ! 
Yes, it was there, on that spot, she said it. I made con- 
fession of my love, and she, in turn, told me of hers; and it 
was the world, the great and gorgeous prize, for which men 
barter everything. And then her cold smile, as I said, 
‘ What is this same rank you prize so highly ; can I not 
reach it — win it? ’ ‘I will not waste youth in struggle and 
conflict,’ said she. ‘Ha!’ cried I, ‘these words are not 
yours. I heard them one short week ago. I know your 
teacher now. It was that false-hearted woman gave you 
these precious maxims. It was not thus you spoke or felt 
when first I knew you. May.’ ‘ Is it not well,’ said she, 
‘that we have each grown wiser?’ I heard no more. I 
have no memory for the passionate words I* uttered, the 
bitter reproaches I dared to make her. We parted in anger, 
never to meet again ; and then poor Clara, how I hear her 
faint, soft voice, as she found me sitting there alone, for- 


230 


ONE OF THEM. 


saken, as she asked me, ‘May I take these flowers?* and 
oh ! how bitterly she wept as I snatched them from her hand, 
and scattered them on the ground, saying, ‘ They were not 
meant for you ! * ‘ Let me have one, dear Alfred,* said she, 

just then ; and she took up a little jasmine flower from the 
walk. ‘ Even that you despise to give is dear to me I ** And 
so I kissed her on the forehead, and said, ‘ Good-bye.* Two 
partings, — never to meet again ! ’* He covered his face with 
his hands, and his chest heaved heavily. 

“ It ’s main dreary in these diggin’s here,** cried Quackin- 
boss, as he came up with long strides. “ I *ve been a-lookin* 
about on every side to find some one to open the house for 
us, but there ain’t a crittur to be found. What ’s all this 
about? You haven’t been a-cryin*, have you?” 

Alfred turned away his head without speaking. 

“ I ’ll tell you what it is, Layton,” said he, earnestly, 
“ there *s no manner of misfortune can befall in life that one 
need to fret over, but the death of friends, or sickness ; and 
as these are God’s own doin’, it is not for us to say they *re 
wrong. Cheer up, man ; you and I are a-goin’ to fight the 
world together.” 

“ You have been a true friend to we,” said Layton, grasp- 
ing the other’s hand, while he held his head still averted. 

“Well, I mean to, that’s a fact; but you must rouse 
yourself, lad. We *re a-goin’ ’cross seas, and amongst 
fellows that, whatever they do with their spare time, give 
none of it to grief. Who ever saw John C. Colhoun cry ? 
Did any one ever catch Dan Webster in tears?” 

“ I was n’t crying,” said Layton ; “I was only saddened 
to see again a spot where I used to be so happy. I was 
thinking of bygones.” 

“I take it bygones is very little use if they don’t teach 
us something more than to grieve over ’em ; and, what ’s 
more, Layton, — it sounds harsh to say it, — but grief, when 
it ’s long persisted in, is downright selfishness, and nothing 
else.” 

Layton slipped his arm within the other’s to move away, 
but as he did so he turned one last look towards the little 
garden. 

“ I see it all now,” said Quackinboss, as they walked 


A DAY IN EARLY SPRING. 


231 


along; “you’ve been and met a sweetheart down here once 
on a time, that ’s it. She ’s been what they call cruel, or 
she ’s broke her word to you. Well, I don’t suppose there’s 
one man livin’ — of what might be called real men — as 
has n’t had something of the same experience. Some has it 
early, some late, but it ’s like the measles, it pushes you main 
hard if you don’t take it when you ’re young. There ’s no 
bending an old bough, — you must break it.” 

There was a deep tone of melancholy in the way the last 
words were uttered that made Layton feel his companion 
was speaking from the heart. 

“But it’s all our own fault,” broke in Quackinboss, 
quickly; “it all comes of the way we treat ’em.” 

“ How do you mean? ” asked Layton, eagerly. 

“I mean,” said the other, resolutely, “we treat ’em as 
reasonable beings, and they ain’t. No, sir, women is like 
Red-men ; they ain’t to be persuaded, or argued with ; 
they ’re to be told what is right for ’em, and good for ’em, 
and that ’s all. What does all your courting and coaxing a 
gal, but make her think herself something better than all 
creation ? Why, you keep a-tellin’ her so all day, and she 
begins to believe it at last. Now, how much better and 
fairer to say to her, ‘ Here ’s how it is, miss, you ’ve got to 
marry me, that’s how it ’s fixed.’ She’ll understand that.” 

“ But if she says, ‘ No, I won’t ’ ? ” 

“ No, no,” said Quackinboss, with a half-bitter smile, 
“ she ’ll never say that to the man as knows how to tell her 
his mind. And as for that courtship, it’s all a mistake. 
Why, women won’t confess they like a man, just to keep the 
game a-movin’. I’m blest if they don’t like it better than 
marriage.” 

Layton gave a faint smile, but, faint as it was, Quackin- 
boss perceived it, and said, — 

“ Now, don’t you go a-persuadin’ yourself these are all 
Yankee notions and such-like. I ’m a- talkin’ of human 
natur’, and there ain’t many as knows more of that article 
than Leonidas Shaver Quackinboss. All you Old-World 
folk make one great mistake, and nothing- shows so clearly 
as how you ’re a worn-out race, used up and done for. Y^ou 
live too much with your emotions and your feelin’s. Have 


232 


ONE OF THEM. 


you never remarked that when the tap-root of a tree strikes 
down too far, it gets into a cold soil? And from that day 
for’ard you ’ll never see fruit or blossom more. That ’s just 
the very thing you’re a-doin’. You ain’t satisfied to be 
active and thrivin’ and healthful, but you must go a-specu- 
latin’ about why you are this, and why you ain’t t’other. 
Get work to do, sir, and do it.” 

“ It is what I intend,” said Layton, in a low voice. 

There ain’t nothing like labor,” said Quackinboss, with 
energy; “work keeps the devil out of a man’s mind, for 
somehow there ’s nothing that black fellow loves like loafing. 
And whenever I see a great, tall, well-whiskered chap lean- 
ing over a balcony in a grand silk dressing-gown, with a 
gold stitched cap on his head, and he a-yawning, I say to 
myself, ‘ Maybe I don’t know who ’s at your elbow now ;’ and 
when I see one of our strapping Western fellows, as he has 
given the last stroke of his hatchet to a pine-tree, and stands 
back to let it fall, wiping the honest sweat from his brow, as 
his eyes turn upward over the tree-tops to something higher 
than them, I say to my heart, ‘ All right, there ; he knows 
who it was gave him the strength to lay that sixty-foot stem 
so low.’ ” 

“ You say truly,” muttered Layton. 

“ I know it, sir ; 1 ’ve been a-loafing myself these last three 
years, and I ’ve run more to seed in that time than in all my 
previous life ; but I mean to give it up.” 

“ What are your plans? ” asked Layton, not sorry to let the 
conversation turn away from himself and his own affairs. 

“My plans! They are ours, I hope,” said Quackinboss. 
“You’re a-coming out with me to the States, sir. We 
fixed it all t’ other night, I reckon ! I ’m a-goin’ to make your 
fortune; or, better still, to show you how to make it for 
yourself.” 

Layton walked on in moody silence, while Quackinboss, 
with all the zealous warmth of conviction, described the 
triumphs and succfess he was to achieve in the New World. 

A very few words will suffice to inform our reader of all 
that he need know on this subject. During Layton’s long 
convalescence poor Quackinboss felt his companionable 
qualities sorely taxed. At first, indeed, his task was that of 


A DAY IN EARLY SPRING. 


233 


consoler, for he had to communicate the death of Alfred’s 
mother, which occurred in the early days of her son’s illness. 
The Rector’s letter, in conveying the sad tidings, was every- 
thing that kindness and delicacy could dictate, and, with 
scarcely a reference to his own share in the benevolence, 
showed that all care and attention had waited upon her last 
hours. The blow, however, was almost fatal to Layton ; and 
the thought of that forlorn, deserted death-bed clung to him 
by day, and filled his dreams by night. 

Quackinboss did his utmost, not very skilfully nor very 
adroitly, perhaps, but with a hearty sincerity, to combat this 
depression. He tried to picture a future of activity and 
exertion, — a life of sterling labor. He placed before his 
companion’s eyes the objects and ambitions men usually 
deem the worthiest, and endeavored to give them an 
interest to him. Met in all his attempts by a dreary, hope- 
less indifference, the kind-hearted fellow reflected long and 
deeply over his next resource ; and so one day, when Layton’s 
recovered strength suggested a hope for the project, he gave 
an account of his own neglected youth, how, thrown when a 
mere boy upon the world, he had never been able to acquire 
more than a smattering of what others learn at school. “ I 
had three books in the world, sir, — a Bible, Robinson Crusoe, 
and an old volume of Wheatson’s Algebra. And from a- 
readin’ and readin’ of ’em over and over, I grew to blend ’em 
all up in my head together. And there was Friday, just as 
much a reality to me as Father Abraham ; and I thought 
men kept all their trade reckoning by simple equations. I 
felt, in fact, as if there was no more than these three books 
in all creation, and out of them a man had to pick all the 
wisdom he could. Now, what I ’m a-thinkin’ is that though 
I ’m too old to go to school, maybe as how you ’d not refuse to 
give me a helpin’ hand, by readin’ occasionally out of those 
languages I only know by name ? Teachin’ an old fellow like 
me is well-nigh out of the question ; but when a man has got 
a long, hard-earned experience of human natur’, it’s a main 
pleasant thing to know that oftentimes the thoughts that he 
is struggling with have occurred to great minds who know how 
to utter them ; and so many an impression comes to be cor- 
rected, or mayhap confirmed, by those clever fellows, with 
their thoughtful heads.” 


234 


ONE OF THEM. 


There was one feature in the project which could not but 
gratify Layton ; it enabled him to show his gratitude for the 
brotherly affection he had met with, and he accepted the sug- 
gestion at once. The first gleam of animation that had 
lighted his eyes for many a day was when planning out the 
line of reading he intended them to follow. Taking less eras 
of history than some of the great men who had illustrated 
them, he thought how such characters would be sure to inter- 
est one whose views of life were eminently practical, and so 
a great law-giver, a legislator, a great general, or orator, was 
each evening selected for their reading. If it were not out 
of our track, we might tell here how much Layton was amused 
by the strange, shrewd commentaries of his companion on 
the characters of a classic age ; or how he enjoyed the curious 
resemblances Quackinboss would discover between the celeb- 
rities of Athens and Rome and the great men of his own 
country. And many a time was the reader interrupted by 
such exclamations as, “Ay, sir, just what J. Q. Adams 
would have said ! ’’ or, “ That’s the way our John Randolph 
would have fixed it ! ” 

But Quackinboss was not satisfied with the pleasure thus 
afforded to himself, for, with native instinct, he began to 
think how all such stories of knowledge and amusement 
might be utilized for the benefit of the possessor. 

“You must come to the States, Layton,” he would say. 
“You must let our people hear these things. They’re a 
main sharp, wide-awake folk, but they ain’t posted up 
about Greeks and Romans. Just mind me, now, and 
you’ll do a fine stroke of work, sir. Give them one of 
these pleasant stories out of that fellow there, Herod — 
Herod — what d’ ye call him ? ” 

“ Herodotus? ” 

“ Ay, that’s he ; and then a slice out of one of those slap- 
ping speeches you read to me t’ other night. I ’m blessed if 
the fellow did n’t lay it on like Point Dexter himself ; and 
wind up all with what we can’t match, a comic scene from 
Aristophanes. You see I have his name all correct. I 
ain’t christened Shaver if you don’t fill your hat with Yan- 
kee dollars in every second town of the Union.” 

Layton burst out into a hearty laugh at wdiat seemed to 


A DAY IN EARLY SPRING. 


235 


him a project so absurd and impossible ; but Quackinboss, 
with increased gravity, continued, — 

“ Your British pride, mayhap, is offended by the thought 
of lecturin’ to us Western folk ; but I am here to tell you, sir, 
that our own first men — ay, and you ’ll not disparage them 
— are a-doin’ it every day. It ’s not play-actin’ I ’m speaking 
of. They don’t go before a crowded theatre to play mimic 
with face or look or voice or gesture. They ’ve got a some- 
thing to tell folk that ’s either ennobling or instructive. 
They’ve got a story of some man, who, without one jot 
more of natural advantages than any of those listening 
there, made himself a name to be blessed and remembered 
for ages. They’ve to show what a thing a strong will is 
when united with an honest heart ; and how no man, no 
matter how humble he be, need despair of being useful to 
his fellows. They ’ve got many a lesson out of history to 
give a people who are just as ambitious, jusjb as encroaching, 
and twice as warlike as the Athenians, about not neglecting 
private morality in the search after national greatness. What 
is the lecturer but the pioneer to the preacher? In clearing 
away ignorance and superstition, ain’t he making way for the 
army of truth that’s coming up? Now I tell you, sir, that 
ain’t a thing to be ashamed of ! ” 

Layton was silent ; not convinced, it is true, but restrained, 
from respect for the other’s ardor, from venturing on a reply 
too lightly. Quackinboss, after a brief pause, went on : — 

“ Well, it is possible what I said about the profit riled you. 
Well, then, don’t take the dollars ; or take them, and give 
them, as some of onr Western men do, to some object of 
public good, — if you’re rich enough.” 

“ Rich enough ! I’m a beggar,” broke in Layton, bitterly, 
“ I ’m at this instant indebted to you for more than, perhaps, 
years of labor may enable me to repay.” 

“I put it all down in a book, sir,” said Quackinboss, 
sternly, “and I threw it in the fire the first night you read 
out Homer to me. I said to myself, ‘ You are well paid. 
Shaver, old fellow. Y'ou never knew how your heart could 
be shaken that way, and what brave feelings were lying 
there still, inside of it.’ ” 

“Nay, dear friend, it is not thus I’m to acquit my debt. 
Even the moneyed one — ” 


236 


ONE OF THEM. 


“I tell you what, Layton,” said Quackinboss, rising, and 
striking the table with his clenched fist, “there’s only one 
earthly way to part us, and that is by speaking to me of 
this. Once, and forever, I say to you, there ’s more benefit 
to a man like me to be your companion for a week, than 
for you to have toiled, and fevered, and sweated after gold, 
as I have done for thirty hard years.” 

“Give me a day or two to think over it,” said Layton, 
“and I ’ll tell you my resolve.” 

“With all my heart! Only, I would ask you not to take 
my showing of its goodness, but to reason the thing well 
out of your own clear head. Many a just cause is lost by a 
bad lawyer; remember that.” And thus the discussion 
ended for the time. 

The following morning, when they met at breakfast. Lay- 
ton took the other’s hand, and said, — 

“I ’ve thought all night of what you ’ve said, and I accept, 

— not without many a misgiving as regards myself, but I 
accept.” 

“I’d not take ten thousand dollars for the engagement, 
sir,” said Quackinboss, as he wrung Layton’s hand. “No, 
sir, T ’d not take it, for even four cities of the Union.” 

Although thus the project was ratified between them, 
scarcely a day passed that Layton did not experience some 
compunction for his pledge. Now, it was a repugnance to 
the sort of enterprise he was about to engage in, the criti- 
cisms to which he was to expose himself, and the publicity 
he was to confront; nor could all his companion’s sanguine 
assurances of success compensate him for his own heartfelt 
repugnance to try the ordeal. 

“After all,” thought he, “failure, with all its pangs of 
wounded self-love, will only serve to show Quackinboss how 
deeply I feel myself his debtor when I am content to risk so 
much to repay him.” 

Such was the bond he had signed, such his struggles to 
fulfil its obligations. One only condition he stipulated for, 

— he wished to go to Ireland before setting out for the 
States, to see the last resting-place of his poor mother ere 
he quitted his country, perhaps forever. Dr. Millar, too, 
had mentioned that a number of letters were amongst the 


A DAY IN EARLY SPRING. 


237 


few relics she had left, and he desired, for many reasons, 
that these should not fall into strangers’ hands. As for 
Quackinboss, he agreed to everything. Indeed, he thought 
that as there was no use in reaching the States before “the 
fall,” they could not do better than ramble about Ireland, 
while making some sort of preparation for the coming 
campaign. 

“How sad this place makes me!” said Layton, as they 
strolled along one of the leaf-strewn alleys. “I wish I had 
not come here.” 

“That’s just what I was a-thinkin’ myself,” said the 
other. “I remember coming back all alone once over the 
Michigan prairie, which I had travelled about eight months 
before with a set of hearty companions, and whenever I ’d 
come up to one of the spots where our tent used to be pitched, 
and could mark the place by the circle of greener grass, with 
a burned-up patch where the fire stood, it was all I could do 
not to burst out a-cryin’ like a child! It’s a main cruel 
thing to go back alone to where you ’ve once been happy in, 
and there’s no forgettin’ the misery of it ever after.” 

“That’s true,” said Layton; “the pleasant memories are 
erased forever. Let us go.” 


CHAPTER XXV. 


BEHIND THE SCENES. 

It is amongst the prerogatives of an author to inform his 
reader of many things which go on “behind the scenes ” of 
life. Let me, therefore, ask your company, for a brief 
space, in a small and not ill-furnished chamber, which, 
deep in the recesses of back scenes, dressing-rooms, scaffold- 
ing, and machinery, is significantly entitled, by a painted 
inscription, “Manager’s Room.” Though the theatre is a 
London one, the house is small. It is one of those West- 
End speculations which are occasionally graced by a com- 
pany of French comedians, a monologist, or a conjurer. 
There is all the usual splendor before the curtain, and all 
the customary squalor behind. At the present moment — 
for it is growing duskish of a November day, and rehearsal 
is just over — the general aspect of the place is dreary 
enough. The box fronts and the lustre are cased in brown 
holland, and, though the curtain is up, the stage presents 
nothing but a chaotic mass of disjointed scenery and prop- 
erties. Tables, chairs, musical instruments, the half of a 
boat, a throne, and a guillotine lie littered about, amidst 
which a ragged supernumerary wanders, broom in hand, 
but apparently hopeless of where or how to begin to reduce 
the confusion to order. 

The manager’s room is somewhat more habitable, for 
there is a good carpet, warm curtains, and an excellent fire, 
at which two gentlemen are seated, whose jocund tones and 
pleasant faces are certainly, so far as outward signs go, fair 
guarantees that the world is not dealing very hardly with 
them, nor they themselves much disgusted with the same 
world. One of these — the elder, a middle-aged man some- 
what inclined to corpulency, with a florid cheek, and clear. 


BEHIND THE SCENES. 


239 


dark eye — is the celebrated Mr. Hyman Stocmar ; cele- 
brated, I say, for who can take up the morning papers with- 
out reading his name and knowing his whereabouts; as 
thus: “We are happy to be able to inform our readers 
that Mr. Stocmar is perfectly satisfied with his after season 
at the ‘ Regent’s.’ Whatever other managers may say, Mr. 
Stocmar can make no complaint of courtly indifference. 
Her Majesty has four times within the last month graced his 
theatre with her presence. Mr. Stocmar is at Madrid, at 
Vienna, at Naples. Mr. Stocmar is in treaty with Signor 
Urlaccio of Turin, or Mademoiselle Voltarina of Venice. 
He has engaged the Lapland voyagers, sledge-dogs and all, 
the Choctaw chiefs, or the Californian lecturer, Boreham, 
for the coming winter. Let none complain of London in 
November so long as Mr. Hyman Stocmar caters for the 
public taste;” and so on. To look at Stocmar’ s bright 
complexion, his ruddy glow, his well-filled waistcoat, and 
his glossy ringlets, — for, though verging on forty, he has 
them still “curly,” — you’d scarcely imagine it possible 
that his life was passed amongst more toil, confusion, diffi- 
culty, and distraction than would suffice to kill five out of 
any twenty, and render the other fifteen deranged. I do 
not mean alone the worries inseparable from a theatrical 
direction, — the fights, the squabbles, the insufferable pre- 
tensions he must bear, the rivalries he must reconcile, the 
hates he must conciliate ; the terrible existence of coax and 
bully, bully and coax, fawn, flatter, trample on, and out- 
rage, which goes on night and day behind the curtain, — 
but that his whole life in the world is exactly a mild coun- 
terpart of the same terrible performance ; the great people, 
his patrons, being fifty times more difficult to deal with than 
the whole corps itself, — the dictating dowagers and exact- 
ing lords, the great man who insists upon Mademoiselle 
So-and-so being engaged, the great lady who will have no 
other box than that occupied by the Russian embassy, the 
friends of this tenor and the partisans of that, the classic 
admirers of grand music, and that larger section who will 
have nothing but comic opera, not to mention the very 
extreme parties who only care for the ballet, and those who 
vote the “Traviata” an unclean thing. What are a lover’s 


240 


ONE OF THEM. 


perjuries to the lies such a man tells all day long ? — lies 
only to be reckoned by that machine that records the revolu- 
tions of a screw in a steamer. His whole existence is 
passed in promises, excuses, evasions, and explanations,* 
always paying a small dividend to truth, he barely escapes 
utter bankruptcy, and by a plausibility most difficult to 
distrust, he obtains a kind of half-credit, — that of one who 
would keep his word if he could. 

By some strange law of compensation, this man, who 
sees a very dark side of human nature, — sees it in its low 
intrigues, unworthy pursuits, falsehoods, and depravities, 
— ,who sees even the “great” in their moods of meanness, 

— this man, I say, has the very keenest relish for life, and 
especially the life of London. He knows every capital of 
Europe: Paris, from the Chaussee d’Antin to the Boulevard 
Mont-Parnasse ; Vienna, from the Hof to the Volksgarten; 
Rome, from the Piazza di Spagna to the Ghetto ; and yet he 
w'ould tell you they are nothing, all of them, to that area 
between Pall Mall and the upper gate of Hyde Park. He 
loves his clubs, his dinners, his junketings to Richmond or 
Greenwich, his short Sunday excursions to the country, 
generally to some great artiste’s villa near Fulham or Chis- 
wick, and declares to you that it is England alone offers all 
these in perfection. Is it any explanation, does it give 
any clew to this gentleman’s nature, if I say that a certain 
aquiline character in his nose, and a peculiar dull lustre in 
the eye, recall that race who, with all the odds of a great 
majority against them, enjoy a marvellous share of this 
world’s prosperity? Opposite to him sits one not unworthy 

— even from externals — of his companionship. He is a 
very good-looking fellow, with light brown hair, his beard 
and moustaches being matchless in tint and arrangement : he 
has got large, full blue eyes, a wide capacious forehead, and 
that style of head, both in shape and the way in which it is 
set on, which indicate a frank, open, and courageous nature. 
Were it not for a little over-attention to dress, there is no 
“ snobbery ” about him ; but there is a little too much velvet 
on his paletot, and his watch trinkets are somewhat in ex- 
cess, not to say that the gold head of his cane is ostenta- 
tiously large and striking. This is Captain Ludlow Paten, 


BEHIND THE SCENES. 


241 


a man about town, known to and by everybody, very much 
asked about in men’s circles, but never by any accident met 
in ladies’ society. By very young men he is eagerly sought 
after. It is one of the best things coming of age has in its 
gift is to know Paten and be able to ask him to dine. 
Older ones relish him full as much; but his great popularity 
is with a generation beyond that again : the mediaevals, who 
walk massively and ride not at all ; the florid, full-cheeked, 
slightly bald generation, who grace club windows of a 
morning and the coulisses at night. These are his “set,” 
par excellence^ and he knows them thoroughly. As for 
himself or his family, no one knows, nor, indeed, wants to 
know anything. The men he associates with chiefly in life 
are all “cognate numbers,” and these are the very people 
who never trouble their heads about a chance intruder 
amongst them ; and although some rumor ran that his father 
was a porter at the Home Office, or a tailor at Black- 
wall, none care a jot on the matter: they want him; and he 
could n’t be a whit more useful if his veins ran with all the 
blood of all the Howards. 

There is a story of him, however, which, though I reveal 
to you, is not generally known. He was once tried for a 
murder. It was a case of poisoning in Jersey, where the 
victim was a well-known man of the Turf, and who was 
murdered by the party he had invited to spend a Christmas 
with him. Paten was one of the company, and included 
in the accusation. Two were hanged; Paten and another, 
named Collier, acquitted. Paten’s name was Hunt, but he 
changed it at once, and, going abroad, entered the Austrian 
service, where, in eight years, he became a lieutenant. This 
was enough for probation and rank, and so he returned to 
England as Captain Ludlow Paten. Stocmar, of course, 
knew the story: there were half a dozen more, also, who 
did, but they each and all knew that poor Paul was innocent; 
that there wasn’t a fragment of evidence against him; that 
he lost — actually lost — by Hawke’s death; that he was 
carried tipsy to bed that night two hours before the murder; 
that he was so overcome the next morning by his debauch 
that he was with difficulty awakened; that the coroner 
thought him a downright fool, he was so stunned by the 

ii 


242 


ONE OF THEM. 


event; in a word, though he changed his name to Paten, and 
now wore a tremendous beard, and affected a slightly foreign 
accent, these were disguises offered up to the mean preju- 
dices of the world rather than precautions of common safety 
and security. 

Though thus Paten’s friends had passed this bill of 
indemnity in his favor, the affair of Jersey was never 
alluded to, by even his most intimate amongst them. It 
was a page of history to be carefully wafered up till that 
reckoning when all volumes are ransacked, and no blottings 
nor erasures avail! As for himself, who, to look at him, 
with his bright countenance, to hear the jocund ring of his 
merry laugh — who could ever imagine such a figure in a 
terrible scene of tragedy? What could such a man have 
to do with any of the dark machinations of crime, the death- 
struggle, the sack, the silent party that stole across the 
grass at midnight, and the fish-pond? Oh, no ! rather pic- 
ture him as one who, meeting such details in his daily 
paper, would hastily turn the sheet to seek for pleasanter 
matter; and so it was he eschewed these themes in conver- 
sation, and even when some celebrated trial would for the 
moment absorb all interest, giving but one topic in almost 
every circle. Paten would drop such commonplaces on the 
subject as showed he cared little or nothing for the event. 

Let us now hear what these two men are talking about, as 
they sat thus confidentially over the fire. Stocmar is the 
chief speaker. He does not smoke of a morning, because 
many of his grand acquaintances are averse to tobacco ; as 
for Paten, the cigar never leaves his lips. 

“Well, now for his story! ” cried Paten. “I ’m anxious 
to hear about him.” 

“I ’m sorry I can’t gratify the curiosity. All I can tell 
you is where I found him. It was in Dublin. They had a 
sort of humble Cremorne there, — a place little resorted to 
by the better classes ; indeed, rarely visited save by young 
subs from the garrison, milliners, and such other lost sheep ; 
not very wonderful, after all, seeing that the rain usually 
contrived to extinguish the fireworks. Having a spare 
evening on my hands, I went there, and, to my astonish- 
ment, witnessed some of the most extraordinary displays 


BEHIND THE SCENES. 


243 


in fireworks I had ever seen. Whether for beauty of 
design, color, and precision, I might declare them un- 
equalled. ‘Who’s your pyrotechnist?’ said I to Barry, 
the proprietor. 

“ ‘ I can’t spare him, Mr. Stocmar,’ said he, ‘ so I entreat 
you don’t carry him off from me.’ 

“ ‘ Oh! ’ cried I, ‘ it was mere curiosity prompted the 
question. The man is well enough here, but he would n’t 
do for us. We have got Giomelli, and Clari — ’ 

“ ‘ Not fit to light a squib for him,’ said he, warming up 
in his enthusiasm for his man. ‘ I tell you, sir, that fellow 
would teach Giomelli, and every Italian of them all. He ’s 
a great man, sir, — a genius. He was, once on a time, the 
great Professor of a University; one of the very first scien- 
tific men of the kingdom, and if it was n’t for ’ — here he 
made a sign of drinking — ‘ he ’d perhaps be this day sought 
by the best in the land. ’ 

“Though interested by all this, I only gave a sort of in- 
credulous laugh in return, when he went on : — 

“ ‘ If I was quite sure you’d not take him away — if 
you ’d give me your word of honor for it — I ’d just show 
him to you, and you ’d see — even tipsy as he ’s sure to be — 
if I ’m exaggerating. ’ 

“ ‘ What is he worth to you, Barry? ’ said I. 

“‘He’s worth — not to reckon private engagements for 
fireworks in gentlemen’s grounds, and the like, — he ’s worth 
from seven to eight pounds a week.’ 

“ ‘ And you give him — ’ 

“ ‘ Well, I don’t give him much. It would n’t do to give 
him much; he has no self-control, — no restraint. He’d 
kill himself, — actually kill himself.’ 

“ ‘ So that you only give him — ’ 

“ ‘ Fourteen shillings a week. Not but that I am making 
a little fund for him, and occasionally remitted his wife — 
he had a wife — a pound or so, without his knowledge.’ 

“ ‘ Well, he ’s not too dear at that,’ said 1. ‘Now let me 
see and speak with him, Barry, and if I like him, you shall 
have a fifty-pound note for him. You know well enough 
that I need n’t pay a sixpence. I have fellows in my 
employment would track him out if you were to hide him in 


244 


ONE OF THEM. 


one of his rocket-canisters ; so just be reasonable, and take 
a good offer/ 

“He was not very willing at first, but he yielded after a 
while, and so I became the owner of the Professor, for such 
they called him.” 

“Had he no other name?” 

“Yes; an old parrot, that he had as a pet, called him 
Tom, and so we accepted that name; and as Tom, or Pro- 
fessor Tom, he is now known amongst us.” 

“Did you find, after all, that you made a good bargain? ” 

“I never concluded a better, though it has its difficulties; 
for, as the Professor is almost an idiot when perfectly 
sober, and totally insensible when downright drunk, there 
is just a short twilight interval between the two, when his 
faculties are in good order.” 

“What can he do at this favorable juncture? ” 

“What can he not? is the question. Why, it was he 
arranged all the scores for the orchestra after the fire, when 
we had not a scrap left of the music of the ‘ Maid of Cash- 
mere. ’ It was he invented that sunrise, in the last scene of 
all, with the clouds rolling down the mountains, and all the 
rivulets glittering as the first rays touch them. It was he 
wrote the third act of Linton’s new comedy; the catas- 
trophe and all were his. It was he dashed off that splendid 
critique on Ristori, that set the town in a blaze ; and then 
he went home and wrote the parody on ‘ Myrra ’ for the 
Strand, all the same night, for I had watered the brandy, 
and kept him in the second stage of delirium till morning.” 

“What a chance! By Jove! Stocmar, you are the only 
fellow ever picks up a gem of this water ! ” 

“It’s not every man can tell the stone that will pay for 
the cutting, Paten, remember that. I ’ve had to buy this 
experience of mine dearly enough.” 

“Are you not afraid that the others will hear of him, and 
seduce him by some tempting offer?” 

“I have, in a measure, provided against that contin- 
gency. He lives here, in a small crib, where we once kept 
a brown bear; and he never ventures abroad, so that the 
chances are he will not be discovered.” 

“How I should like to have a look at him! ” 


BEHIND THE SCENES. 


245 


“Nothing easier. Let us see, what o’clock is it? Near 
five. Well, this is not an unfavorable moment; he has just 
finished his dinner, and not yet begun the evening.” Ring- 
ing the bell, as he spoke, he gave orders to a supernumerary 
to send the Professor to him. 

While they waited for his coming, Stocmar continued to 
give some further account of his life and habits, the total 
estrangement from all companionship in which he lived, his 
dislike to be addressed, and the seeming misanthropy that 
animated him. At last the manager, getting impatient, 
rang once more, to ask if he were about to appear. 

“Well, sir,” said the man, with a sort of unwillingness in 
his manner, “he said as much as that he was n’t coming; 
that he had just dined, and meant to enjoy himself without 
business for a while.” 

“Go back and tell him that Mr. Stocmar has something 
very important to tell him ; that five minutes will be enough. 
— You see the stuff he’s made of?” said the manager, as 
the man left the room. 

Another, and nearly as long a delay ensued, and at last 
the dragging sound of heavy slipshod feet was heard 
approaching; the door was rudely opened, and a tall old 
man, of haggard appearance and in the meanest rags, en- 
tered, and, drawing himself proudly up, stared steadfastly 
at Stocmar, without even for an instant noticing the pres- 
ence of the other. 

“I wanted a word, — just one word with you. Professor,” 
began the manager, in an easy, familiar tone. 

“ Men do not whistle even for a dog, when he ’s at his 
meals,” said the old man, insolently. “They told you I 
was at my dinner, did n’t they? ” 

“Sorry to disturb you, Tom; but as two minutes would 
suffice for all I had to say — ” 

“Reason the more to keep it for another occasion,” was 
the stubborn reply. 

“We are too late this time,” whispered Stocmar across 
towards Paten ; “ the fellow has been at the whiskey-bottle 
already.” 

With that marvellous acuteness of hearing that a brain 
in its initial state of excitement is occasionally gifted with. 


246 


ONE OF THEM. 


the old man caught the words, and, as suddenly rendered 
aware of the presence of a third party, turned his eyes on 
Paten. At first the look was a mere stare, but gradually 
the expression grew more fixed, and the bleared eyes dilated, 
while his whole features became intensely eager. With a 
shuffling but hurried step he then moved across the fioor, 
and, coming close up to where Paten stood, he laid his 
hands upon his shoulders, and wheeled him rudely round, 
till the light of the window fell full upon him. 

“Well, old gent,” said Paten, laughing, “if we are not 
old friends, you treat me very much as though we were.” 

A strange convulsion, half smile, half grin, passed over 
the old man’s face, but he never uttered a word, but stood 
gazing steadily on the other. 

“You are forgetting yourself, Tom,” said Stocmar, 
angrily. “That gentleman is not an acquaintance of 
yours.” 

“And who told you that?” said the old man, insolently. 
“Ask himself if we are not.” 

“I’m afraid I must give it against you, old boy,” said 
Paten, good-humoredly. “This is the first time I have 
had the honor to meet you.” 

“It is not! ” said the old man, with a solemn and even 
haughty emphasis. 

“I could scarcely have forgotten a man of such impres- 
sive manners,” said Paten. “Will you kindly remind me 
of the where and how you imagine us to have met? ” 

“I will,” said the other, sternly. “You shall hear the 
where and the how. The where was in the High Court, at 
Jersey, on the 18th of January, in the year 18 — ; the how, 
was my being called on to prove the death, by corrosive 
sublimate, of Godfrey Hawke. Now, sir, what say you to 
my memory, — is it accurate, or not? ” 

Had not Paten caught hold of a heavy chair, he would 
have fallen; even as it was, he swayed forward and back- 
ward like a drunken man. 

“And you — you were a doctor in those days, it seems,” 
said he, with an affected laugh, that made his ghastly fea- 
tures appear almost horrible. 

“Yes; they accused me of curing folk, just as they 


BEHIND THE SCENES. 247 

Charged you with killing them. Calumnious world that it 
is, — lets no man escape ! 

“After all, my worthy friend,” said Paten, as he drew 
himself haughtily up, and assumed, though by a great effort, 
his wonted ease of manner, “you are deceived by some 
chance resemblance, for I know nothing about Jersey, and 
just as little of that interesting little incident you have 
alluded to.” 

“ This is even more than you attempted on the trial. You 



never dreamed of so bold a stroke as that, there. No, no, 
Paul Hunt, I know you well : that ’s a gift of mine, — drunk 
or sober, it has stuck to me through life, — I never forget a 
face, — never ! ” 

“ Come, come, old Tom,” said Stocmar, as he drew forth a 
sherry decanter and a large glass from a small recess in the 
wall, “ this is not the kindliest way to welcome an old friend 
,or make a new one. Taste this sherry, and take the bottle 
back with you, if you like the flavor.” Stocmar’s keen 
glance met Paten’s eyes, and as quickly the other under- 
stood his tactique. 

“ Good wine, rare wine, if it was n’t so cold on the 


248 


ONE OF THEM. 


stomach,” said the old man, as he tossed off the second 
goblet. Already his eyes grew wild and bloodshot, and his 
watery lip trembled. “To your good health, gentlemen 
both,” said he, as he finished the decanter. “I'm proud 
you liked that last scene. It will be finer before I 've done 
with it; for I intend to make the lava course down the 
mountain, and be seen fitfully as the red glow of the erup- 
tion lights up the picture.” 

“With the bay and the fleet all seen in the distance, 
Tom,” broke in Stocmar. 

“ Just so, sir; the lurid glare — as the newspaper fellows 
will call it — over all. Nothing like Bengal-lights and 
Roman-candles ; they are the poetry of the modern drama. 
Ah ! sir, no sentiment without nitrate of potash ; no poetry if 
you have n’t phosphorus.” And with a drunken laugh, and 
a leer of utter vacancy, the old man reeled from the room 
and sought his den again. 

“Good Heavens, Stocmar! what a misfortune!” cried 
Paten, as, sick with terror, he dropped down into a chair. 

“ Never fret about it, Paul. That fellow will know noth- 
ing of what has passed when he wakes to-morrow. His 
next drunken bout — and I ’ll take care it shall be a deep 
one — will let such a flood of Lethe over his brain that not 
one single recollection will survive the deluge. You saw 
why I produced the decanter?” 

“Yes; it was cleverly done, and it worked like magic. 
But only think, Stocmar, if any one had chanced to be here 
— it was pure chance that there was not — and then — ” 

“ Egad! it might have been as you say,” said Stocmar; 
“ there would have been no stopping the old fellow ; and had 
he but got the very slightest encouragement, he had been off 
at score.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 


A DARK REMEMBRANCE. 

On a sea like glass, and with a faint moonlight streaking the 
calm water, the “ Vivid,” her Majesty’s mail-packet, steamed 
away for Ostend. There were very few passengers aboard, 
so that it was clearly from choice two tall men, wrapped well 
up in comfortable travelling-cloaks, continued to walk the 
deck, till the sandy headlands of Belgium could be dimly 
descried through the pinkish gray of the morning. They 
smoked and conversed as they paced up and down, talking 
in low, cautious tones, and even entirely ceasing to speak 
when by any chance a passing sailor came within earshot. 

“ It is, almost day for day, nine years since I crossed 
over here,” said one, “ and certainly a bleaker future never 
lay before any man than on that morning ! ” 

“Was she with you, Ludlow?” asked the other, whose 
deep voice recalled the great Mr. Stocmar. “ Was she with 
you?” 

“ No ; she refused to come. There was nothing I did n’t 
do, or threaten to do, but in vain. I menaced her with every 
sort of publicity and exposure. I swore I ’d write the whole 
stor}^, — giving a likeness of her from the miniature in my pos- 
session ; that I ’d give her letters to the world in fac-simile 
of her own hand ; and that, while the town rang with the 
tragedy, as the newspapers called it, they should have a dash 
of melodrama, or high comedy too, to heighten the interest. 
All in vain ; she braved everything — defied everything.” 

“There are women with that sort of masculine tempera- 
ment — ” 

“ Masculine you call it ! ” cried the other, scoffingly ; 
“ you never made such a blunder in your life. They are 
entirely and essentially womanly. You’d break twenty men 


250 


ONE OF THEM. 


down, smash them like rotten twigs, before you ’d succeed in 
turning one woman of this stamp from her fixed will. I ’ll 
tell you another thing, too, Stocmar,” added he, in a lower 
voice : they do not fear the world the way men do. Would 
you believe it? Collins and myself left the island in a 
fishing-boat, and she — the woman — went coolly on board 
the mail-packet with her maid and child, and sat down to 
breakfast with the passengers, one of whom had actually 
served on the jury.” 

“ What pluck ! I call that pluck.” 

“ It ’s more like madness than real courage,” said the 
other, peevishly; and for some minutes they walked on 
side by side without a word. 

“ If I remember rightly,” said Stocmar, “she was not 
put on her trial?” 

“No; there was a great discussion about it, and many 
blamed the Crown lawyers for not including her; but, in 
truth, there was not a shadow of evidence to be brought 
against her. His treatment of her might have suggested the 
possibility of any vengeance.” 

“Was it so cruel?” 

“Cruel is no word for it. There was not an insult nor 
an outrage spared her. She passed one night in the deep 
snow in the garden, and was carried senseless into the house 
at morning, and only rallied after days of treatment. He 
fired at her another time.” 

“Shot her!” 

“Yes, shot her through the shoulder, — sent the bullet 
through here, — because she would not write to Ogden a 
begging letter, entreating him to assist her with a couple of 
hundred pounds.” 

Oh, that was too gross ! ” exclaimed Stocmar. 

“He told her, ‘ You’ve cost me fifteen hundred in dam- 
ages, and you may tell Ogden he shall have you back again 
for fifty.’” 

“ And she bore all this? ” 

“I don’t know what you mean bybearing.it. She did 
not stab him. Some say that Hawke was mad, but I never 
thought so. He had boastful fits at times, in which he would 
vaunt all his villanies, and tell you of the infamies he had 


A DARK REMEMBRANCE. 


251 


done with this man and that ; but they were purely the 
emanations of an intense vanity, which left him unable to 
conceal anything. Imagine, for instance, his boasting how 
he had done the ‘ Globe * office out of ten thousand, insured 
on his first wife’s life, — drowned when bathing. I heard 
the story from his own lips, and I’ll never forget his laugh 
as he said, ‘ I ’d have been in a hole if Mary had n’t.’ ” 

“ That was madness, depend on ’t.” 

“ No ; I think not. It was partly vanity, for he delighted 
above all things to create an effect, and partly a studied plan 
to exercise an infiuence by actual terror, in which he had a 
considerable success. I could tell you of a score of men 
who would not have dared to thwart him ; and it was at last 
downright desperation drove Tom Towers and Wake to” — 
he hesitated, faltered, and, in a weak voice, added, — “to 
do it ! ” 

“How was it brought about?” whispered Stocmar, cau- 
tiously. 

Paten took out his cigar-case, selected a cigar with much 
care, lighted it, and, after smoking for some seconds, 
began: “It all happened this way: we met one night at 
that singing-place in the Haymarket. Towers, Wake, Col- 
lins, and myself were eating an oyster supper, when Hawke 
came in. He had been dining at the ‘ Eag,’ and had won 
largely at whist from some< young cavalry swells, who had 
just joined. He was fiushed and excited, but not from 
drinking, for he said he had not tasted anything but claret- 
cup at dinner. ‘ You ’re a mangy-looking lot,* said he, 
^ with your stewed oysters and stout,’ as he came up. ‘ Why, 
frozen-out gardeners are fine gentlemen in comparison. Are 
there no robberies going on at the Ottoman, — nothing doing 
down at Grimshaw’s?’ 

“ ‘ You ’re very bumptious about belonging to the “ Eag,” 
Hawke,’ said Towers ; ‘ but they ’ll serve you the same trick 
they did me one of these days.’ 

“‘No, sir, they’ll never turn me out,’ said Hawke, in- 
solently. 

“‘More fools they, then,’ said the other; ‘for you can 
do ten things for one that I can ; and, what ’s more, you 
have done them.’ 


252 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ ‘ And will again, old boy, if that’s any comfort to you,* 
cried Hawke, finishing off the other’s malt. ‘Waiter, fetch 
me some cold oysters, and score them to these gentlemen,’ 
said he, gayly, taking his place amongst us. And so we 
chaffed away, about one thing or another, each one contrib- 
uting some lucky or unlucky hit that had befallen him ; but 
Hawke always bringing up how he had succeeded here, and 
what he had won there, and only vexed if any one reminded 
him that he had been ever ‘ let in ’ in his life. 

“‘Look here,’ cried he, at last; ‘ye’re an uncommon 
seedy lot, very much out at elbows, and so I ’ll do you a 
generous turn. I ’ll take ye all over to my cottage at Jersey 
for a week, house and grub you, and then turn you loose on 
the island, to do your wicked will with it.’ 

“ ‘ We take your offer — we say, Done ! ’ cried Collins. 

“ ‘I should think you do! You’ve been sleeping under 
the colonnade of the Hay market these last three nights,* 
said he to Collins, ‘ for want of a lodging. There ’s Towers 
chuckling over the thought of having false keys to all my 
locks ; and Master Paul, yonder,’ said he, grinning at me, 
‘ is in love with my wife. Don’t deny it, man ; I broke open 
her writing-desk t’ other day, and read all your letters to 
her ; but I ’m a generous dog ; and, what ’s better,’ added 
he, with an insolent laugh, ‘ one as bites, too — eh, Paul? — 
don’t forget that.’ 

“ ‘ Do you mean the invitation to be real and bond fide V 
growled out Towers ; ‘ for I ’m in no jesting humor.’ 

“ ‘ I do,’ said Hawke, flourishing out a handful of bank- 
notes ; ‘ there ’s enough here to feed five times as many 
blacklegs ; and more costly guests a man can’t have.* 

“‘You’ll go, won’t you?’ said Collins, to me, as we 
walked home together afterwards. 

“ ‘ Well,’ said I, doubtingly, ‘ I don’t exactly see my wa3^* 

“ ‘ By Jove ! ’ cried he, ‘ you are afraid of him.’ 

“ ‘ Not a bit,’ said I, impatiently. ‘ I ’m well acquainted 
with his boastful habit : he ’s not so dangerous as he ’d have 
us to believe.* 

“ ‘ But will you go? — that’s the question,* said he, more 
eagerly. 

“ ‘ Why are you so anxious to know?’ asked I, again. 


A DARK REMEMBRANCE. 


253 


“ ‘I’ll be frank with you,’ said he, in a low, confidential 
tone. ‘ Towers wants to be certain of one thing. Mind, 
now,’ added he, ‘ I ’m sworn to secrecy, and I ’m telling you 
now what I solemnly swore never to reveal ; so don’t betray 
me, Paul. Give me your hand on it.’ And I gave him my 
hand. 

“ Even after I had given him this pledge, he seemed to 
have become timorous, and for a few minutes he faltered and 
hesitated, totally unable to proceed. At last he said, half 
inquiringly, — 

“ ‘ At all events, Paul, you cannot like Hawke?’ 

“ ‘ Like him ! there is not the man on earth I hate as I hate 
him ! ’ 

“ ‘ That ’s exactly what Towers said : “ Paul detests him 
more than we do.” ’ 

“ The moment Collins said these words the whole thing 
flashed full upon me. They were plotting to do for Hawke, 
and wanted to know how far I might be trusted in the 
scheme. 

“ ‘ Look here, Tom,’ said I, confidentially ; ‘ don’t tell me 
anything. I don’t want to be charged with other men’s 
secrets; and, in return. I’ll promise not to pry after them. 
“Make your little game,” as they say at Ascot, and don’t 
ask whether I ’m in the ring or not. Do you understand 
me?’ 

“‘I do, perfectly,’ said he. ‘The only point Towers 
really wanted to be sure of is, what of her ? What he says 
is, there’s no telling what a woman will do.’ 

“ ‘ If I were merely to give an opinion,’ said I, carelessly, 

‘ I ’d say, no danger from that quarter ; but, mind, it ’s only 
an opinion.’ 

“‘Wake says you’d marry her,’ said he, bluntly, and 
with an abruptness that showed he had at length got courage 
to say what he wanted. 

“ ‘ Tom Collins,’ said I, seriously, ‘ let us play fair ; don’t 
question me, and I ’ll not question you,^ 

“ ‘ But you ’ll come along with us? ’ asked he, eagerly. 

“‘I’m not so sure of that, now,’ said I ; ‘ but if I do, 
it ’s on one only condition.’ 

“ ‘ And that is — ’ 


254 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ ^ That I ’m to know nothing, pr hear nothing, of what- 
ever you Te about. I tell you distinctly that I ’ll not pry 
anywhere, but, in return, treat me as a stranger in whose 
discretion you cannot trust’ 

“ ‘You like sure profits and a safe venture, in fact,’ said 
he, sneeringly. 

“ ‘ Say one half of that again, Collins,’ said I, ‘ and I’ll 
cut with the whole lot of you. I ask no share. I ’d accept 
no share in your gains here.’ 

“ ‘But you’ll not peach on us, Paul? ’ said he, catching 
my hand. 

“ ‘ Never,’ said I, ‘ as long as you are on the square with 
me' 

“ After this, he broke out into the wildest abuse of Hawke, 
making him out — as it was not hard to do — the greatest 
villain alive, mingling the attack with a variety of details of 
the vast sums he had latterly been receiving. ‘ There are,’ 
he said, ‘ more than two thousand in hard cash in his hands, 
at this moment, and a number of railway shares and some 
Peruvian bonds, part of his first wife’s fortune, which he has 
just recovered by a lawsuit.’ So close and accurate were all 
these details, so circumstantial every part of the story, that 
I perceived the plan must have been long prepared, and only 
waiting for a favorable moment for execution. With this 
talk he occupied the whole way, till I reached my lodgings. 

“‘And now, Paul,’ said he, ‘before we part, give me 
your word of honor once more. ’ 

“ ‘ There ’s my pledge,’ said I, ‘ and there ’s my hand. 
So long as I hear nothing, and see nothing, I know noth- 
ing.* And we said good-night, and separated. 

“So long as I was talking with Collins,” continued Paten, 
— “so long, in fact, as I was taking my own side in the 
discussion, — I did not see any difficulty in thus holding 
myself aloof from the scheme, and not taking any part 
whatever in the game played out before me; but when I 
found myself alone in my room, and began to conjure up 
an inquest and a trial, and all the searching details of a 
cross-examination, I trembled from head to foot. I remem- 
ber to this hour how I walked to and fro in my room, put- 
ting questions to myself aloud, and in the tone of an exam- 


A DARK REMEMBRANCE. 


255 


ining counsel, till my heart sickened with fear ; and when at 
last I lay down, wearied but not sleepy, on my bed, it was 
to swear a solemn vow that 'nothing on earth should induce 
me to go over to Jersey. 

“The next day I was ill and tired, and I kept my bed,, 
telling my servant to let no one disturb me on any pretext. 
Towers called, but was not admitted. Collins came twice, 
and tried hard to see me, but my man was firm, so that Tom 
was fain to write a few words on a card, in pencil : ‘ H. is 
ill at Dimmer’s; but it is only del. tremens, and he will be 
all right by Saturday. The boat leaves Blackwall at eleven. 
Don’t fail to be in time.’ This was Thursday. There was 
no time to lose, if I only knew what was best to be done. 
I ’ll not weary you with the terrible tale of that day’s tor- 
tures; how I thought over every expedient in turn, and in 
turn rejected it; now I would go to Hawke, and tell him 
everything; now to the Secretary of State at the Home 
Office; now to Scotland Yard, to inform the police; then 
I bethought me of trying to dissuade Towers and the others 
from the project; and at last I resolved to make a ‘ bolt’ of 
it, and set out for Ireland by the night mail, and lie hid in 
some secluded spot till all was over. About four o’clock I 
got up, and, throwing on my dressing-gown, I walked to the 
window. It was a dark, dull day, with a thin rain falling, 
and few persons about; but just as I was turning away from 
the window I saw a tall, coarse-looking fellow pass into the 
oyster-shop opposite, giving a glance up towards me as he 
went ; the next minute a man in a long camlet cloak left the 
shop, and walked down the street; and, muffied though he 
was from head to foot, I knew it was Towers. 

“I suppose my conscience wasn’t all right, for I sank 
down into a chair as sick as if I’d been a month in a 
fever. I saw they had set a watch on me, and I knew well 
the men I had to deal with. If Towers or Wake so much 
as suspected me, they ’d make all safe before they ventured 
further. I looked out again, and there was the big man, 
with a dark blue woollen comforter round his throat, read- 
ing the advertisements on a closed shutter, and then stroll- 
ing negligently along the street. Though his hat was 
pressed down over his eyes, I saw them watching me as he 


256 


ONE OF THEM. 


went ; and such was my terror that I fancied they were still 
gazing at me after he turned the corner. 

“Fully determined now to make my escape, I sat down 
and wrote a few lines to Collins, saying that a relation of 
mine, from whom I had some small expectations, was taken 
suddenly ill, and sent for me to come over and see him, so 
that I was obliged to start for Ireland by that night’s mail. 
I never once alluded to Jersey, but concluded with a kindly 
message to all friends, and a hasty good-bye. 

“Desiring to have my servant out of the way, I de- 
spatched him with this note, and then set about making my 
own preparations for departure. It was now later than I 
suspected, so that I had barely time to pack some clothes 
hastily into a carpet-bag, and cautiously descended the 
stairs with it in my hand, opened the street door and issued 
forth. Before I had, however, gone ten yards from the 
door, the large man was at my side, and in a gruff voice 
offered to carry my bag. I refused as roughly, and walked 
on towards the cab-stand. I selected a cab, and said Euston 
Square; and as I did so, the big fellow mounted the box 
and sat down beside the driver. I saw it was no use, and, 
affecting to have forgotten something at my lodgings, I got 
out, paid the cab, and returned home. How cowardly! 
you’d say. No, Stocmar, I knew my men: it was not 
cowardly. I knew that, however they might abandon a 
project or forego a plan, they would never, never forgive a 
confederate that tried to betray them. No, no,” muttered 
he, below his breath; “no man shall tell me it was 
cowardice. 

“ When I saw that there was no way to turn back, I deter- 
mined to go forward boldly, and even eagerly, trusting to 
the course of events to give me a chance of escape. I 
wrote to Collins to say that my relative was better, and 
should not require me to go over; and, in short, by eleven 
o’clock on the appointed Saturday, we all assembled on the 
deck of the ‘ St. Helier,’ bound for Jersey. 

“Never was a jollier party met for an excursion of pleas- 
ure, — all but Hawke himself ; he came aboard very ill, and 
went at once to his berth. He was in that most pitiable 
•state, the commencing convalescence of delirium tremens. 


A DARK REMEMBRANCE. 


257 


when all the terrors of a deranged mind still continue to 
disturb and distress the recovering intellect. As we went 
down one by one to see him, he would scarcely speak, or 
even notice us. At times, too, he seemed to have forgotten 
the circumstance which brought us all there, and he would 
mutter to himself, ‘ It was no good job gathered all these 
fellows together. Where can they be going to? What can 
they be after? ’ We had just sat down to dinner, when 
Towers came laughing into the cabin. ‘ What do you think, ’ 
said he to me, ‘ Hawke has just told me confidentially ? He 
said, “I ’m not at all easy about that lot on deck,” — mean- 
ing you all. “The devil doesn’t muster his men for mere 
drill and parade, and the moment I land in the island I ’ll 
tell the police to have an eye on them.” ’ We laughed 
heartily at this polite intention of our host, and joked a 
good deal over the various imputations our presence might 
excite. From this we went on to talk over what was to be 
done if Hawke should continue ill, all being agreed that, 
having come so far, it would be impossible to forego our 
projected pleasure: and at last it was decided that I, by 
virtue of certain domestic relations ascribed to me, should 
enact the host, and do the honors of the house, and so they 
filled bumpers to the Regency, and I promised to be a mild 
Prince. 

“ ‘ There ’s the thing for Godfrey,’ said Towers, as some 
grilled chicken was handed round; and taking the dish 
from the waiter, he carried it himself to Hawke, and 
remained while he ate it. ‘ Poor devil ! ’ said he, as he came 
back, ‘ he seems quite soft-hearted about my little atten- 
tions to him. He actually said, “Thank you, old fellow.” ’ ” 

Perhaps our reader will thank us if we do not follow 
Paten through a narrative in which the minutest detail was 
recorded, nor any, even the most trivial, incident forgotten, 
graven as they were on a mind that was to retain them to 
the last. All the levities they indulged in during the voy- 
age, — which was, in fact, little other than an orgie from 
the hour they sailed to that they landed, dashed with little 
gloomy visits to that darkened sick berth where Hawke 
lay, — all were remembered, all chronicled. 

17 


258 


ONE OF THEM. 


The cottage itself — The Hawke’s Nest, as it was whimsi- 
cally called — he described with all the picturesque ardor of 
an artist. It was truly a most lovely spot, nestled down in 
a cleft between the hills, and so shut in from all wintry 
influences that the oranges and myrtles overgrew it as 
though the soil were Italy. The grounds were of that half- 
park, half-garden order, which combines greensward and 
flowering border, and masses into one beauteous whole the 
glories of the forest-tree with the spray-like elegance of the 
shrub. There was a little lake, too, with an island, over 
whose leafy copper beeches a little Gothic spire appeared, 
— an imitation of some richly ornamented shrine in Moor- 
ish Spain. What was it that in this dark story would still 
attract him to the scenery of this spot, making him linger 
and dally in it as though he could not tear himself away ? 
Why would he loiter in description of some shady alley, 
some woodbine-trellised path, as though the scene had no 
other memories but those of a blissful bygone? In fact, 
such was the sort of fascination the locality seemed to exer- 
cise over him, that his voice grew softer, the words faltered 
as he spoke them, and once he drew his hand across his 
eyes, as though to wipe away a tear. 

“Was it not strange, Stocmar,” broke he suddenly in, 
“I was never able to see her one moment alone? She 
avoided it in fifty ways! Hawke kept his room for two 
days after we arrived, and we scarcely ever saw her, and 
when we did, it was hurriedly and passingly. Godfrey, 
too, he would send for one of us, — always one, mark you, 
alone ; and after a few muttering words about his suffering, 
he ’d be sure to say, ‘ Can you tell me what has brought 
them all down here? I can’t get it out of my head that 
there ain’t mischief brewing.’ Now each of us in turn had 
heard this speech, and we conned it over and over again. 
‘It’s the woman has put this notion in his head,’ said 
Towers. ‘ I ’ll take my oath it came from her. Look to 
that., Paul Hunt, ’ said he to me, ‘ for you have influence in 
that quarter.’ I retorted angrily to this, and very high 
words passed between us ; in fact, the altercation went so 
far that, when we met at dinner, we never addressed or 
noticed each other. I ’ll never forget that dinner. Wake 


A DARK REMEMBRANCE. 




seemed to range himself on Towers’s side, and Collins 
looked half disposed to take mine ; everything that was said 
by one was sure to be capped by some sharp impertinence 
by another, and we sat there interchanging slights and 
sneers and half-covert insolences for hours. 

“If there had been a steamer for Southampton, I ’d have 
started next morning. I told Collins so when I went to my 
room ; but he was much opposed to this, and said, ‘ If we 
draw back now, it must be with Towers and Wake, — all 
or none! ’ We passed nearly the entire night in discussing 
the point, and could not agree on it. 

“I suppose that Hawke must have heard how ill we all 
got on together. There was a little girl — a daughter by 
his first wife — always in and out of the room where we 
were; and though in appearance a mere infant, the shrewd- 
est, craftiest little sprite I ever beheld. Now this Clara, I 
suspect, told Hawke everything that passed. I know for 
certain that she was in the flower-garden, outside the win- 
dow, during a very angry altercation between Towers and 
myself, and when I went up afterwards to see Hawke he 
knew the whole story. 

“What a day that was! I had asked Loo to let me speak 
a few words with her alone, and, after great hesitation, she 
promised to meet me in the garden in the evening. I had de- 
termined on telling her everything. I was resolved to break 
with Towers and Wake, and I trusted to her clear head to 
advise how best to do it. The greater part of the morning 
Towers was up in Hawke’s room ; he had always an immense 
influence over Godfrey; he knew things about him none 
others had ever heard of, and, when he came downstairs, 
he took the doctor — it was your old Professor, that mad 
fellow — into the library, and spent full an hour with him. 
When Towers came out afterwards, he seemed to have got 
over his angry feeling towards me, and, coming up in all 
seeming frankness, took my arm, and led me out into the 
shrubbery. 

“‘Hawke is sinking rapidly,’ said he; ‘ the doctor says 
he cannot possibly recover.’ 

“‘Indeed!’ said I, amazed. ‘What does he call the 
malady ? ’ 


260 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ ‘ He says it ’s a break-up, — a general smash, — lungs, 
liver, brain, all destroyed ; a common complaint with fel- 
lows who have lived hard.’ He looked at me steadily, 
almost fiercely, as he said this, but I seemed quite insen- 
sible to his gaze. ‘ He ’ll not leave her a farthing,’ added 
he, after a moment. 

‘ The greater villain he, then,’ said I. ‘ It was for him 
she ruined herself.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, yes, that was all true enough once; but now^ 
Master Paul, — now there ’s another story, you know.’ 

“ ‘ If you mean under the guise of a confidence to renew 
the insults you dared to pass upon me yesterday, ’ said I, ‘ I 
tell you at once I ’ll not bear it. ’ 

“ ‘ Can’t you distinguish between friendship and indiffer- 
ence?’ said he, warmly. ‘I don’t ask you to trust me 
with your secrets, but let us talk like men, not like children. 
Hawke intends to alter his will to-morrow. It had been 
made in her favor; at least, he left her this place here, and 
some small thing he had in Wales; he ’s going to change 
everything and leave all to the girl.’ 

“ ‘ It can’t be a considerable thing, after all,’ said I, peev- 
ishly, and not well knowing what I said. 

“ ‘ Pardon me,’ broke he in; ‘ he has won far more than 
any of us suspected. He has in hard cash above two thou- 
sand pounds in the house, a mass of acceptances in good 
paper, and several bonds of first-rate men. I went over his 
papers this morning with him, and saw his book, too, for the 
Oaks, — a thing, I suppose, he had never shown to any 
living man before. He has let us all in there, Paul ; he has, 
by Jove! for while telling us to put all upon Jeremy, he ’s 
going to win with Proserpine! ’ 

“I confess the baseness of this treachery sickened me. 

“ ‘ “ How Paul will storm, and rave, and curse me when 
he finds it out,” said he; “but there was no love lost be- 
tween us.” He never liked you. Hunt, — never.’ 

“ ‘ It ’s not too late yet,’ said I, ‘ to hedge about and save 
ourselves. ’ 

“ ‘No, there ’s time still, especially if he “hops the twig.” 
Now,’ said he, after a long pause, ‘ if by any chance he 
were to die to-night, she’d be safe; she’d at least inherit 


A DAKK REMEMBRANCE. 261 

some hundreds a year, and a good deal of personal 
property. ’ 

There ’s no chance of that^ though,' said I, negligently. 

“ ‘ Who told you so, Paul? ' said he, with a cunning cast 
of his eye. ‘ That old drunken doctor said he 'd not insure 
him for twenty-four hours. A rum old beast he is! Do 
you know what he said to me awhile ago? “Captain,” 
said he, “do you know anything about chemistry ? ” “ Noth- 
ing whatever,” said I. “Well,” said he, with a hiccup, — 
for he was far gone in liquor, — “ albumen is the antidote 
to the muriate ; and if you want to give him a longer line, 
let him have an egg to eat. ” ' ” 

“ Good Heavens ! Do you mean that he suspected — ” 

“He was dead drunk two minutes afterwards, and said 
that Hawke was dying of typhus, and that he ’d certify 
under his hand. ‘But no matter about said he, im- 
patiently. ‘ If Hawke goes off to-night, it will be a good 
thing for all of us. Here ’s this imp of a child! ' muttered 
he, below his breath; ‘ let us be careful.' And so we parted 
company, each taking his own road. 

“I walked about the grounds alone all day, — I need not 
tell you with what a heavy heart and a loaded conscience, 
— and only came back to dinner. We were just sitting 
down to table, when the door opened, and, like a corpse out 
of his grave, Hawke stole slowly in, and sat down amongst 
us. He never spoke a word, nor looked at any one. I 
swear to you, so terrible was the apparition, so ghastly, and 
so death-like, that I almost doubted if he were still living. 

“ ‘ Well done, old boy! there 's nothing will do you such 
good as a little cheering up,' cried Towers. 

“ ‘ A^/ie's asleep,' said he, in a low, feeble voice, ‘and so 
I stole down to eat my last dinner with you.' 

“ ‘ Not the last for many a year to come,' said Wake, 
filling his glass. ‘ The doctor says you are made of iron.' 

“ ‘A man of mettle, I suppose,' said he, with a feeble 
attempt to laugh. 

“‘There! isn't he quite himself again?' cried Wake. 

‘ By George! he 'll see us all down yet! ' 

“ ‘Down where?' said Hawke, solemnly. And the tone 
and the words struck a chill over us. 


262 


ONE OF THEM. 


“We did not rally for some -time, and when we did, it 
was with an effort forced and unnatural. Hawke took 
something on his plate, but ate none of it, turning the meat 
over with his fork in a listless way. His wine, too, he laid 
down when half-way to his lips, and then spat it out over 
the carpet, saying to himself something inaudible. 

“‘What’s the matter, Godfrey? Don’t you like that 
capital sherry ? ’ said Towers. 

“ ‘No,’ said he, in a hollow, sepulchral voice. 

“ ‘ We have all pronounced it admirable,’ went on the 
other. 

“ ‘ It burns, — everything burns,’ said the sick man. 

“ I filled him a glass of iced water and handed it to him, 
and Towers gave me a look so full of hate and vengeance 
that my hand nearly let the tumbler drop. 

“ ‘ Don’t drink cold water, man! ’ cried Towers, catching 
his arm ; ‘ that is the worst thing in the world for you. ’ 

“ ‘ It won’t poison me, will it?’ said Hawke. And he 
fixed his leaden, glazy gaze on Towers. 

“‘What the devil do you mean?’ cried he, savagely. 
‘ This is an ugly jest, sir. ’ 

“ The sick man, evidently more stattled by the violence of 
the manner than by the words themselves, looked from one 
to the other of us all round the table. 

“ ‘ Forgive me, old fellow,’ burst in Towers, with an 
attempt to laugh; ‘ but the whole of this day, I can’t say 
why or how, but everything irritates and chafes me. I really 
believe that we all eat and drink too well here. We live 
like fighting-cocks, and, of course, are always ready for 
conflict.’ 

“We all did our best to forget the unpleasant interruption 
of a few minutes back, and talked away with a sort of over- 
eagerness. But Hawke never spoke; there he sat, turning 
his glazed, filmy look from one to the other, as though in 
vain trying to catch up something of what went forward. 
He looked so ill — so fearfully ill, all the while, that it 
seemed a shame to sit carousing there around him, and so I 
whispered to Collins; but Towers overheard me, and said, — 

“ ‘All wrong. You don’t know what tough material he 
is made of. This is the very thing to rally him, — eh, 


A DARK REMEMBRANCE. 


263 


Godfrey ? ’ cried he, louder. ‘ I telling these fellows that 
you ’ll be all the better for coming down amongst us, and 
that when I ’ve made you a brew of that milk-punch you 
are so fond of — ’ 

“ ‘ It won’t burn my throat, will it? ’ whined out the sick 
man. 

“ ‘ Burn your throat! not a bit of it; but warm your blood 
up, give energy to your heart, and brace your nerves, so 
that before the bowl is finished you ’ll sing us “Tom 
Hall; ” or, better still, “That rainy day I met her,” — 

“ That rainy day I met her, 

When she tripped along the street, 

And, with petticoat half lifted, 

Showed a dainty pair of feet.” 

How does it go? ’ said he, trying to catch the tune. 

“A ghastly grin — an expression more horrible than I 
ever saw on a human face before — was Hawke’s recogni- 
tion of this appeal to him, and, beating his fingers feebly 
on the table, he seemed trying to recall the air. 

“ ‘ I can’t stand this any longer,’ whispered Wake to me; 
‘ the man is dying ! ’ 

“‘Confound you for a fool!’ said Towers, angrily. 

‘ You ’ll see what a change an hour will make in him. I ’ve 
got the receipt for that milk-punch up in my room. I ’ll go 
and fetch it.’ And with this he arose, and hastily left 
the room. 

“ ‘Where’s Tom?’ said the sick man, with a look of 
painful eagerness. ‘ Where is he? ’ 

“ ‘He’s gone for the receipt of the milk-punch; he’s 
going to make a brew for you ! ’ said I. 

“ ‘ But I won’t take it. I ’ll taste nothing more,’ said he, 
with a marked emphasis. ‘ I ’ll take nothing but what Loo 
gives me,’ muttered he, below his breath. And we all ex- 
changed significant looks with each other. 

“ ‘ This will never do,’ murmured Wake, in a low voice. 

‘ Say something — tell a story — but let us keep moving.’ 

“And Collins began some narrative of his early experi- 
ences on the Turf. The story, like all such, was the old 
burden of knave and dupe, — the man who trusted and the 
man who cheated. None of us paid much attention to the 


264 


ONE OF THEM. 


details, but drank away at our wine, and sent the decanters 
briskly round, when suddenly, at the mention of a horse 
being found dead in his stall on the morning he was to have 
run, Hawke broke in with ‘ Nobbled! Just like me! ’ 

Though the words were uttered in a sort of revery, and 
with a bent-down head, we all were struck dumb, and gazed 
ruefully at each other. ‘ Where 's Towers all this time? ' 
said Collins to me, in a whisper. I looked at my watch, 
and saw that it was forty-four minutes since he left the 
room. I almost started up from my seat with terror, as I 
thought what this long absence might portend. Had he 
actually gone off, leaving us all to the perils that were sur- 
rounding us? Was it that he had gone to betray us to the 
law? I could not speak from fear when the door opened, 
and he came in and sat down in his place. Though endeav- 
oring to seem easy and unconcerned, I could mark that he 
wore an air of triumph and success that he could not 
subdue. 

“ ‘ Here comes the brew,’ said he, as the servant brought 
in a large smoking bowl of fragrant mixture. 

“ ‘ I T1 not touch it! ’ said Hawke, with a resolute tone 
that startled us. 

“ ‘ What! after giving me more than half an hour’s trouble 
in preparing it,’ said Towers. ‘Come, old fellow, that is 
not gracious. ’ 

“ ‘ Drink it yourselves ! ’ said Hawke, sulkily. 

“ ‘ So we will, after we have finished this Burgundy,’ said 
Towers. ‘ But, meanwhile, what will you have? It ’s poor 
fun to sit here with an empty glass. ’ And he filled him 
out a goblet of the milk-punch and placed it before him. 
‘ Here’s to the yellow jacket with black sleeves,’ said he, 
lifting his glass; ‘ and may we see him the first “round the 
corner.” ’ 

‘“First “round the corner!”’ chorussed the rest of us. 
And Hawke, catching up the spirit of the toast, seized his 
glass and drank it off. 

“ ‘ I knew he ’d drink his own colors if he had one leg in 
the grave ! ’ said Towers. 

“The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten at the moment. 
It was the hour I was to meet her in the shrubbery ; and so, 


A DARK REMEMBRANCE. 


265 


pretending to go in search of my cigar-case, I slipped away 
and left them. As I was passing behind Hawke’s chair, he 
made a gesture to me to come near him. I bent down my 
head to him, and he said, ‘ It won’t do this time; she ’ll not 
meet you, Paul. ’ These were the last words I ever heard 
him speak.” 

When Paten had got thus far, he walked away from his 
friend, and, leaning his arm on the bulwark, seemed over- 
whelmed with the dreary retrospect. He remained thus for 
a considerable time, and only rallied as Stocmar, drawing 
his arm within his, said, “Come, come, this is no fresh 
sorrow now. Let me hear the remainder.” 

“He spoke truly,” said he, in a broken voice. “She 
never came ! I walked the grounds for above an hour and a 
half, and then I came back towards the cottage. There was 
a light in her room, and I whistled to attract her notice, 
and threw some gravel against the glass, but she only closed 
the shutters, and did not mind me. I cannot tell you how 
my mind was racked between the actual terror of the situa- 
tion and the vague dread of some unknown evil. What had 
produced this change in her ? Why had she broken with 
me? Could it be that Towers had seen her in that long 
interval he was absent from the table, and, if so, to what 
intent? She always hated and dreaded him; but who could 
tell what influence such a man might acquire in a moment 
of terrible interest? A horrible sense of jealousy — not the 
less maddening that it was shadowy and uncertain — now 
filled my mind; and — would you believe it? — I thought 
worse of Towers for his conduct towards me than for the 
dreadful plot against Hawke. Chance led me, as I walked, 
to the bank of the little lake, where I stood for some time 
thinking. Suddenly a splash — too heavy for the spring of 
a fish — startled me, and immediately after I heard the 
sound of some one forcing his way through the close under- 
wood beside me. Before I had well rallied from my aston- 
ishment, a voice I well knew to be that of Towers, cried 
out, — 

“ ‘ Who ’s there? — who are you? ’ 

“I called out, ‘ Hunt, — Paul Hunt! ’ 

‘ And what the devil brings you here, may I ask ? ’ said 


266 


ONE OF THEM. 


he, insolently, but in a tone that showed he had been drink- 
ing deeply. 

‘‘ It was no time to provoke discord ; it was a moment that 
demanded all we could muster of concession and agreement, 
and so I simply told how mere accident had turned my steps 
in this direction. 

“‘What if I said I don’t believe you, Paul Hunt?’ re- 
torted he, savagely. ‘ What if I said that I see your whole 
game in this business, and know every turn and every trick 
you mean to play us ? ’ 

“ ‘ If you had not drunk so much of Godfrey’s Bur- 
gundy,’ said I, ‘ you’d never have spoken this way to an old 
friend.’ 

“‘Friend be !’ cried he, savagely. ‘I know no 

friends but the men who will share danger with you as well 
as drink out of the same bottle. Why did you leave us this 
evening? ’ 

“ ‘I’ll be frank with you, Tom,* said I. ‘I had made a 
rendezvous with Louisa; but she never came.’ 

“ ‘ Why should she? ’ muttered he, angrily. ‘ Why should 
she trust the man who is false to his pals?’ 

“ ‘ That I have never been,’ broke I in. ‘ Ask Hawke 
himself. Ask Godfrey, and he’ll tell you whether I have 
ever dropped a word against you.’ 

“ ‘ No, he would n’t,’ said he, doggedly. 

“ ‘ I tell you he would,’ cried I. ‘ Let us go to him this 
minute.’ 

“ ‘ I’d rather not, if the choice were given me,’ said he, 
with a horrid laugh. 

“ ‘ Do you mean,’ cried I, in terror, — ‘ do you mean that 
it is all over?’ 

“ ‘ All over! ’ said he, gravely, and as though his clouded 
faculties were suddenly cleared. ‘ Godfrey knows all about 
it by this time,’ muttered he, half to himself. 

“ ‘Would to Heaven we had never come here! ’ burst I 
in, for my heart was breaking with anguish and remorse. 
‘How did it happen, and where?’ 

“ ‘ In the chair where you last saw him. We thought he 
had fallen asleep, and were for having him carried up to 
bed, when he gave a slight shudder and woke up again. 


A DARK REMEMBRANCE. 


267 


Where’s Loo? ” cried he, in a weak voice; and then, be- 
fore we could answer, he added, “ Where ’s Hunt? ” 

“ ‘ “Paul was here a moment ago; he’ll be back imme- 
diately.” 

“ ‘ He gave a laugh, — such a laugh I hope never to hear 
again. Cold as he lies there now, that terrible grin is on his 
face yet. “ You ’ve done it this time, Tom,” said he to me, 
in a whisper. “ What do you mean? ” said I. “ Death ! ” 
said he ; “ it ’s all up with me, — your time is coming.” And 
he gave a ghastly grin, sighed, and it was over.’ 

“ We both sat down on the damp ground, and never spoke 
for nigh an hour. At last Tom said, ‘ We ought to be back 
in the house, and trying to make ourselves useful, Paul.’ 

“ I arose, and walked after him, not knowing well whither 
I was going. When we reached the little flower-garden, we 
could see into the dining-room. The branch of wax-candles 
were still lighted, but burnt down very low. All had left ; 
there was nothing there but the dead man sitting up in his 
chair, with his eyes staring, and his chin fallen. ‘ Craven- 
hearted scoundrels ! ’ cried Towers. ‘ The last thing I said 
was to call in the servants, and say that their master had 
fainted ; and see, they have run away out of sheer terror. 
Ain’t these hopeful fellows to go before the coroner’s in- 
quest?’ I was trembling from head to foot all this while, 
and had to hold Towers by the arm to support myself. 

‘ You are not much better ! ’ said he, savagely. ‘ Get to 
bed, and take a long sleep, man. Lock your door, and open 
it to none till I come to you.’ I staggered away as well as I 
could, and reached my room. Once alone there, I fell on 
my knees and tried to pray, but 1 could not. I could do 
nothing but cry, — cry, as though my heart would burst ; and 
I fell off asleep, at last, with my head on the bedside, and 
never awoke till the next day at noon. Oh ! ” cried he, in a 
tone of anguish, “do not ask me to recall more of this 
dreadful story; I’d rather follow the others to the scaffold, 
than I ’d live over again that terrible day. But you know 
the rest, — the whole world knows it. It was the ‘ Awful 
Tragedy in Jersey ’ of every newspaper of England ; even to 
the little cottage, in the print-shop windows, the curiosity of 
the town was gratified. The Pulpit employed the theme to 


268 


ONE OF THEM. 


illustrate the life of the debauchee ; and the Stage repeated 
the incidents in a melodrama. With a vindictive inquisitive- 
ness, too, the Press continued to pry after each of us, 
whither we had gone, and what had become of us. I myself, 
at last, escaped further scrutiny by the accidental circum- 
stance of a pauper, called Paul Hunt, having died in a poor- 
house, furnishing the journalist who recorded it one more 
occasion for moral reflection and eloquence. Collins lived, 
I know not how or where. She sailed for Australia, but I 
believe never went beyond the Cape.’* 

“ And you never met her since?” 

“ Never.” 

“ Nor have you held any correspondence together?” 

“None, directly. I have received some messages; one 
to that purport I have already told you. Indeed, it was but 
t’other day that I knew for certain she was in Europe.” 

“ What was she in appearance, — what style and manner of 
person ? ” 

“You shall guess before I tell you,” said Paten, smiling 
sadly. 

“ A dark-eyed, dark-haired woman, — brunette, — tall, — 
with a commanding look, — thin lips, — and strongly marked 
chin.” 

“ Here,” said he, approaching the binnacle lantern, and 
holding out a miniature he had drawn from his breast, — 

here you can recognize the accuracy of your description.” 

“But can that be like her?” 

“ It is herself ; even the careless ease of the attitude, the 
voluptuous indolence of the ‘ pose,’ is all her own.” 

“ But she is the very type of feminine softness and delicacy. 
I never saw eyes more full of gentle meaning, nor a mouth 
more expressive of womanly grace.” 

“There is no flattery in the portrait; nay, it wants the 
great charm she excelled in, — that ever changeful look as 
thoughts of joy or sadness would flash across her.” 

“ Good Heavens ! ” cried Stocmar. “ How hard it is to con- 
nect this creature, as she looks here, with such a story ! ” 

“ Ah, my friend, these have been the cruel ones, from 
the earliest time we hear of. The more intensely they are 
womanly, the more unrelenting their nature.” 


A DARK REMEMBRANCE. 


269 


“ And what do you mean to do, Ludlow? for I own to you 
I think she is a hard adversary to cope with.’* 

“ I ’ll marry her, if she ’ll have me.” 

“ Have you? Of course she will.” 

She says not ; and she generally keeps her word.” 

“But why should you wish to marry her, Ludlow? You 
have already told me that you know nothing of her means, 
or how she lives ; and, certainly, the memories of the past 
give small guarantee for the future. As for myself, I own 
to you, if there was not another woman — ” 

“ Nay, nay,” broke in Paten, “ you have never seen her, — 
never spoken to her.” 

“ You forget, my dear fellow, that I have passed a life in 
an atmosphere of mock fascinations ; that tinsel attractions 
and counterfeit graces would all fail with me.” 

“ But who says they are factitious? ” cried Paten, angrily. 
“ The money that passes from hand to hand, as current coin, 
may have some alloy in its composition a chemist might call 
base, but it will not serve to stamp it as fraudulent. I tell 
you, Stocmar, it is the whole fortune of a man’s life to be as- 
sociated with such a woman. They can mar or make you.” 

“ More likely the first,” muttered Stocmar. And then 
added aloud, “ And as to her fortune, you actually know 
nothing.” 

“ Nothing beyond the fact that there’s money somewhere. 
The girl or she, I can’t say which, has it.” 

“ And of course, in your eyes, it ’s like a pool at ecarte : 
you don’t trouble your head who are the contributors ? ” 

“ Not very much if I win, Stocmar ! ” said he, resuming at 
once all the wonted ease of his jovial manner. 

Stocmar walked the deck in deep thought. The terrible 
tale he had just heard, though not new in all its details, had 
impressed him fearfully, while at the same time he could not 
conceive how a man so burdened with a horrible past could 
continue either to enjoy the present or speculate on the future. 

At last he said, “ And have you no dread of recognition, 
Ludlow? Is the danger of being known and addressed by 
your real name not always uppermost with you? ” 

“ No, not now. When I first returned to England, after 
leaving the Austrian service, I always went about with an 


270 


ONE OF THEM. 


uneasy impression upon me, — a sort of feeling that when 
men looked at me they were trying to remember where 
and when and how they had seen that face before ; but 
up to this none have ever discovered me, except Dell the 
detective officer, whom I met one night at Cremorne, and 
who whispered me softl}’^, ‘ Happy to see you, Mr. Hunt. 
Have you been long in England ? ’ I affected at first not 
to understand him, and, touching his hat politely, he said : 
‘ Well, sir, — Jos. Dell. If you remember, I was there at 
the inquest.’ I invited him to share a bottle of wine with 
me at once, and we parted like old friends. By the way,” 
added he, “ there was that old pyrotechnist of yours, — ► 
that drunken rascal, — he knew me too.” 

“Well, you’re not likely to be troubled with another 
recognition from him, Ludlow.” 

“How so? Is the fellow dead?” 

“ No ; but I ’ve shipped him to New York by the ‘ Persia.' 
Truby, of the Bowery Theatre, has taken a three years’ lease 
of him, and of course cocktails and juleps will shorten even 
that.” 

“ That is a relief, by Jove ! ” cried Paten. “ I own to you, 
Stocmar, the thought of being known by that man lay like 
a stone on my heart. Had you any trouble in inducing him 
to go ? ” 

“ Trouble? No. He went on board drunk ; he ’ll be drunk 
all the voyage, and he ’ll land in America in the same happy 
state.” 

Paten smiled pleasantly at this picture of beatitude, and 
smoked on. “There’s no doubt about it, Stocmar,” said 
he, sententiously, “ we all of us do make cowards of our- 
selves quite needlessly, imagining that the world is full of us, 
canvassing our characters and scrutinizing our actions, when 
the same good world is only thinking of itself and its own 
affairs.” 

“ That is true in part, Ludlow. But let us make ourselves 
foreground figures, and, take my word for it, we ’ll not have 
to complain of want of notice.” 

Paten made a movement of impatience at this speech, that 
showed how little he liked the sentiment, and then said, — 

“ There are the lights of Ostend. What a capital passage 


A DARK REMEMBRANCE. 


271 


we have made ! I can’t express to you,” said he, with more 
animation, “ what a relief it is to me to feel myself on the 
soil of the Continent. I don’t know how it affects others, 
but to me it seems as if there were greater scope and a freer 
room for a man’s natural abilities there.” 

“ I suppose you think we are cursed with ‘ respectability^ 
at home.” 

“ The very thing I mean,” said he, gayly ; “ there ’s nothing 
I detest like it.” 

“Colonel Paten,” cried the steward, collecting his fees. 

“Are you Colonel?” asked Stocmar, in a whisper. 

“ Of course I am, and very modest not to be Major- 
General. But here we are, inside the harbor already.” 

Were we free to take a ramble up the Rhine country, and 
over the Alps to Como, we might, perhaps, follow the steps 
of the two travellers we have here presented to our reader. 
They were ultimately bound for Italy, but in no wise tied by 
time or route. In fact, Mr. Stocmar’s object was to seek 
out some novelties for the coming season. “Nihil humanum 
a me alienum puto ” was his maxim. All was acceptable 
that was attractive. He catered for the most costly of all 
publics, and who will insist on listening to the sweetest voices 
and looking at the prettiest legs in Europe. He was on the 
lookout for both. What Ludlow Paten’s object was the 
reader may perhaps guess without difficulty, but there was 
another “ transaction ” in his plan not so easily determined. 
He had heard much of Clara Hawke, — to give her her true 
name, — of her personal attractions and abilities, and he 
wished Stocmar to see and pronounce upon her. Although 
he possessed no pretension to dispose of her whatever, he 
held certain letters of her supposed mother in his keeping 
which gave him a degree of power which he believed irresis- 
tible. Now, there is a sort of limited liability slavery at 
this moment recognized in Europe, by which theatrical 
managers obtain a lease of human ability, for a certain 
period, under nonage, and of which Paten desired to derive 
profit by letting Clara out as dancer, singer, comedian, or 
“figurante,” according to her gifts; and this, too, was a 
purpose of the present journey. 

The painter or the sculptor, in search of his model, has 


272 


ONE OF THEM. 


no higher requirements than those of form and symmetry ; 
he deals solely with externals, while the impresario must 
carry his investigations far beyond the category of personal 
attractions, and soar into the lofty atmosphere of intellectual 
gifts and graces, bearing along with him, at the same time, a 
full knowledge of that public for whom he is proceeding; 
that fickle, changeful, fanciful public, who sometimes, out of 
pure satiety with what is best, begin to long for what is 
second-rate. What consummate skill must be his who thus 
feels the pulse of fashion, recognizing in its beat the indica- 
tions of this or that tendency, whether “society” soars to 
the classic “Norma,” or descends to the tawdry vulgarisms 
of the “ Traviata ” ! No man ever accepted more implicitly 
than Mr. Stocmar the adage of “Whatever is, is best.” 
The judgment of the day with him was absolute. The 
“ world ” a toujours raison^ was his creed. When that world 
pronounced for music, he cried, “Long live Verdi!” when 
it decided for the ballet, his toast was, “ Legs against the 
field ! ” Now, at this precise moment, this same world had 
taken a turn for mere good looks, — if it be not heresy to 
say “ mere ” to such a thing as beauty, — and had actually 
grown a little wearied of roulades and pirouettes ; and so 
Stocmar had come abroad, to see what the great slave market 
of Europe could offer him. 

Let us suppose them, therefore, pleasantly meandering 
along through the Rhineland, while we turn once more to 
those whom we have left beyond the Alps. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


THE FRAGMENT OF A LETTER. 

The following brief epistle from Mrs. Morris to her father 
will save the reader the tedious task of following the Heath- 
cote family through an uneventful interval, and at the same 
time bring him to that place and period in which we wish to 
see him. It is dated Hotel d’ltalie, Florence : — 

“ Dear Papa, — You are not to feel any shock or alarm at the 
black margin and wax of this epistle, though its object be to inform 
you that I am a widow, Captain Penthony Morris having died some 
eight months back in Upper India; but the news has only reached 
me now. In a word, I have thought it high time to put an end to 
this mythical personage, whose cruel treatment of me I had grown 
tired of recalling, and, I conclude, others of listening to. Now, 
although it may be very hard on you to go into mourning for the 
death of one who never lived, yet I must bespeak your grief, in so 
far as stationery is concerned, and that you write to me on the most 
woe-begone of cream-laid, and with the most sorrow-struck of seals. 

“ There was, besides, another and most cogent reason for my 
being a widow just now. The Heathcotes are here, on their way 
to Rome, and, like all English people, eager to go everywhere, do 
everything, and know everybody ; the consequence is eternal junket- 
ing and daily dinner-parties. I need not tell you that in such a 
caravanserai as this is, some one would surely turn up who should 
recognize me; so there was nothing for it but to kill Captain M. and 
go into crape and seclusion. As my bereavement is only a sham, I 
perform the affliction without difflculty. Our mourning, too, be- 
comes us, and, everything considered, the incident has spared us 
much sight-seeing and many odious acquaintances. 

“As it is highly important that I should see and consult you, you 
must come out here at once. As the friend and executor of poor 
‘ dear Penthony,’ you can see me freely, and I really want your 
advice. Do I understand you aright about Ludlow? If so, the 
creature is a greater fool than I thought him. Marrying him is 
purely out of the- question. Of all compacts, the connubial demands 

18 


274 


ONE OF THEM. 


implicit credulity ; and if this poor man’s tea were to disagree with 
him, he ’d be screaming out for antidotes before the servants, and I 
conclude that be cannot expect me to believe in him. The offer you 
have made him on my part is a great and brilliant one, and, for the 
life of me, I cannot see why be should hesitate about it, though I, 
perhaps, suspect it to be this. Like most fast men, — a very shallow 
class, after all, — his notion is that life, like a whist-party, requires 
an accomplice. Now, I would beg him to believe this is not the 
case, and that for two people who can play their cards so well as we 
can, it is far better to sit down at separate tables, where no suspicion 
of complicity can attach to us. I, at least, understand what suits 
my own interest, which is distinctly and emphatically to have nothing 
to do with him. You say that he threatens, — threatens to engulf us 
both. If he were a woman, the menace would frighten me, but men 
are marvellously conservative in their selfishness, and so I read it as 
mere threat. 

“ It is, I will say, no small infliction to carry all this burden of the 
past through a present rugged enough with its own difficulties. To 
feel that one can be compromised, and, if compromised, ruined at 
any moment, — to walk with a half-drawn indictment over one, — to 
mingle in a world where each fresh arrival may turn out accuser, — 
is very, very wearisome, and I long for security. It is for this 
reason I have decided on marrying Sir William instead of his son. 
The indiscretion of a man of his age taking a wife of mine will 
naturally lead to retirement and reclusion from the world, and we 
shall seek out some little visited spot where no awkward memories 
are like to leave their cards on us. I have resigned myself to so 
much in life, that I shall submit to all this with as good a grace as 
I have shown in other sacrifices. Of course L. can spoil this pro- 
ject, — he can upset the boat, — but he ought to remember, if he 
does, that he was never a good swimmer. Do try and impress this 
upon him; there are usually some flitting moments of every day 
when he is capable of understanding a reason. Catch one of these, 
dear pa, and profit by it. It is by no means certain that Miss L. 
would accept him ; but, certainly, smarting as she is under all man- 
ner of broken ties, the moment is favorable, and the stake a large 
one. Nor is there much time to lose, for it seems that young 
Heathcote cannot persuade the Horse Guards to give him even a 
‘ Cornetcy,’ and is in despair how he is to re-enter the service ; the 
inevitable consequence of which will be a return home here, and, 
after a while, a reconciliation. It is only wise people who ever 
know that the science of life is opportunity, everything being pos- 
sible at some one moment, which, perhaps, never recurs again. 

“ I scarcely know what to say about Clara. She has lost her 
spirits, though gained in looks, and she is a perfect mope, but very 


THE FRAGMENT OF A LETTER. 


275 


pretty withal. She fancies herself in love with a young college man 
lately here, who won all the disposable hearts in the place, and 
might have had a share even in mine, if he had asked for it. The 
greater fool he that he did not, since he wanted exactly such guidance 
as I could give to open the secret door of success to him. By the 
way, has his father died, or what has become of him ? In turning 
over some papers t’other day, the name recurred with some far 
from pleasant recollections associated with it. Scientific folk used 
to tell us that all the constituents of our mortal bodies became con- 
sumed every seven years of life. And why, I ask, ought we not to 
start with fresh memories as well as muscles, and ignore any past 
beyond that short term of existence? I am perfectly convinced it 
is carrying alone bygones, whether of events or people, that con- 
stitutes the greatest ill of life. One so very seldom repents of 
having done wrong, and is so very, very sorry to have lost many 
opportunities of securing success, that really the past is all sorrow. 

“ You have forgotten to counsel me about Clara. The alternative 
lies between the stage and a convent. Pray say which of the two, in 
these changeful times, gives the best promise of permanence; and 
believe me 

“ Your affectionate daughter, 

« Louisa.” 


CHAPTER XXVm. 


THE o’SHEA AT HIS LODGINGS. 

A VERY brief chstpter will suffice to record the doings of two 
of our characters, not destined to perform very foreground 
parts in the present drama. We mean Mr. O’Shea and 
Charles Heathcote. They had established themselves in 
lodgings in a certain locality called Manchester Buildings, 
much favored by some persons who haunt the avenues of 
“ the House,” and are always in search of “ our Borough 
Member.” Neither the aspect of their domicile, nor their 
style of living, bespoke flourishing circumstances. O’Shea, 
indeed, had returned to town in cash, but an unlucky night 
at the “ Oarottoman ” had finished him, and he returned to 
his lodgings one morning at daybreak two hundred and 
seventeen pounds worse than nothing. 

Heathcote had not played ; nay, he had lived almost penu- 
riously; but in a few weeks all his resources were nigh 
exhausted, and no favorable change had occurred in his for- 
tunes. At the Horse Guards he had been completely un- 
successful. He had served, it is true, with distinction, but, 
as he had quitted the army, he could not expect to be 
restored to his former rank, while, by the rules of the ser- 
vice, he was too old to enter as a subaltern. And thus a 
trained soldier, who had won fame and honor in two cam- 
paigns, was, at the age of twenty-six, decided to be super- 
annuated. It was the chance meeting of O’Shea in the 
street, when this dilemma was mentioned, that led to their 
ultimate companionship, for the Member at once swore to 
bring the case before the House, and to make the country 
ring from end to end with the enormity. Poor Heathcote, 
friendless and alone at the moment, caught at the promise, 
and a few days afterwards saw them domesticated as chums 
at No. — , in the locality already mentioned. 


THE O’SHEA AT HIS LODGINGS. 


277 


“ You’ll have to cram me, Heathcote, with the whole case. 
I must be able to make an effective speech, narrating all the 
great exploits you have done, with everywhere you have been, 
before I come to the grievance, and the motion for ‘ all the 
correspondence between Captain Heathcote and the author- 
ities at the Horse Guards, respecting his application to be 
reinstated in the army.’ I ’ll get a special Tuesday for the 
motion, and I ’ll have Howley in to second me, and maybe we 
won’t shake the Treasury benches ! for you see the question 
opens everything that ever was, or could be, said about the 
army. It opens Horse Guards cruelty and irresponsibility, 
those Bashi-Bazouks that rule the service like despots ; it 
opens the purchase system from end to end ; it opens the 
question of promotion by merit ; it opens the great problem 
of retirement and superannuation. By my conscience ! I 
think I could bring the Thirty-nine Articles into it, if I was 
vexed.” 

The Member for Inch had all that persuasive power a 
ready tongue and an unscrupulous temper supply, and 
speedily convinced the young soldier that his case would not 
alone redound to his own advancement but become a prece- 
dent, which should benefit hundreds of others equally badly 
treated as himself. 

It was while thus conning over the project, O’Shea men- 
tioned, in deepest confidence, the means of that extraordinary 
success which, he averred, had never failed to attend all his 
efforts in the House, and this was, that he never ventured on 
one of his grand displays without a previous rehearsal at 
home ; that is, he assembled at his own lodgings a supper 
company of his most acute and intelligent friends — young 
barristers, men engaged on the daily or weekly press — the 
smart squib- writers and caricaturists of the day — alive to 
everything ridiculous, and unsparing in their criticism ; and 
by these was he judged in a sort of mock Parliament formed 
by themselves. To each of these was allotted the character 
of some noted speaker in the House, who did his best to per- 
sonate the individual by every trait of manner, voice, and 
action, while a grave, imposing-looking man, named Doran, 
was a capital counterfeit of the “ Speaker.” 

O’Shea explained to Heathcote that the great advantage 


278 


ONE OF THEM. 


of this scheme consisted in the way it secured one against 
surprises; no possible interruption being omitted, nor any 
cavilling objection spared to the orator. “YouTl see,” he 
added, “that after sustaining these assaults, the attack of 
the real fellows is only pastime.” 

The day being fixed on, the company, numbering nigh 
twenty, assembled, and Charles Heathcote could not avoid 
observing that their general air and appearance were scarcely 
senatorial. O’Shea assured him gravity would soon succeed 
to the supper, and dignity come in with the whiskey-punch. 
This was so far borne out that when the cloth was removed, 
and a number of glasses and bottles were distributed over 
the blackened mahogany, a grave and almost austere bearing 
was at once assumed by the meeting. Doran also took his 
place as Speaker, his cotton umbrella being laid before him 
as the mace. The orders of the day were speedily disposed 
of, and a few questions as to the supply of potables satis- 
factorily answered, when O’Shea arose to bring on the case 
of the evening, — a motion “ for all the correspondence be- 
tween the authorities of the Horse Guards and Captain 
Heathcote, respecting the application of the latter to be 
reinstated in the service.” 

The Secretary-at-War, a red-faced, pimply man, sub- 
editor of a Sunday paper, objected to the production of the 
papers ; and a smart sparring- match ensued, in which O’Shea 
suffered rather heavily, but at last came out victorious, being 
allowed to state the grounds for his application. 

O’Shea began with due solemnitj^, modestly assuring the 
House that he wished the task had fallen to one more com- 
petent than himself, and more conversant with those profes- 
sional details which would necessarily occupy a large space 
in the narrative. 

“ Surely the honorable member held a commission in the 
Clare Fencibles.” 

“Was not the honorable member’s father a band-master 
in the Fifty-fourth?” cried another. 

“To the insolent interruptions which have met me,” said 
O’Shea, indignantly — 

“ Order ! order ! ” 

“ Am I out of order, sir? ” asked he of the Speaker. 


THE O’SHEA AT HIS LODGINGS. 279 

“Clearly so,” replied that functionary. “Every inter- 
ruption, short of a knock-down, is parliamentary.” 

“ I bow to the authority of the chair, and I say that the 
rufiSanly allusions of certain honorable members ‘pass by 
me like the idle wind, that I regard not.’” 

“ Where ’s that from ? Take you two to one in half-crowns 
you can’t tell,” cried one. 

“ Done ! ” “ Order ! order ! ” “ Spoke ! ” with cries of 

“ Go on ! ” here convulsed the meeting ; after which O’Shea 
resumed his discourse. 



“When, sir,” said he, “I undertook to bring under the 
notice of this House, and consequently before the eyes of 
the nation, the case of a distinguished officer, one whose 
gallant services in the tented field, whose glorious achieve- 
ments before the enemy have made his name famous in all 
the annals of military distinction, I never anticipated to have 
been met by the howls of faction, or the discordant yells of 
disappointed and disorderly followers — mere condottieri — 
of the contemptible tyrant who now scowls at me from the 
cross-benches.” 

Loud cheers of applause followed this burst of indignation. 

An animated conversation now ensued as to whether this 


ONE OF THEM. 


m 

was strictly parliamentary; some averring that they “had 
heard worse,” others deeming it a shade too violent, O’Shea 
insisting throughout that there never was a sharp debate in 
the House without far blacker insinuations, while in the Irish 
Parliament such courtesies were continually interchanged, 
and very much admired. 

“Wasn’t it Lawrence Parsons who spoke of the ‘highly 
gifted blackguard on the other side?”’ and “Didn’t John 
Toler allude to the ‘ ignorant and destitute spendthrift who 
now sat for the beggarly borough of Athlone ? ’ ” cried two 
or three advocates of vigorous language. 

“There’s worse in Homer,” said another, settling the 
question on classical authority. 

The discussion grew warm. What was, and what was 
not, admissible in language was eagerly debated ; the inter- 
change of opinion, in a great measure, serving to show that 
there were few, if any, freedoms of speech that might not be 
indulged in. Indeed, Heathcote’s astonishment was only at 
the amount of endurance exhibited by each in turn, so can- 
did were the expressions employed, so free from all disguise 
the depreciatory sentiments entertained. 

In the midst of what had now become a complete uproar, 
and while one of the orators, who by dint of lungs had 
overcome all competitors, was inveighing against O’Shea as 
“ a traitor to his party, and the scorn of every true Irish- 
man,” a fresh arrival, heated and almost breathless, rushed 
into the room. 

“It’s all over,” cried he; “the Government is beaten. 
The House is to be dissolved on Wednesday, and the country 
to go to a general election.” 

Had a shell fallen on the table, the dispersion could not 
have been more instantaneous. Barristers, reporters, bor- 
ough agents, and penny-a-liners, all saw their harvest-time 
before them, and hurried away to make their engagements; 
and, in less than a quarter of an hour, O’Shea was left alone 
with his companion, Charles Heathcote. 

“ Here’s a shindy! ” cried the ex-M. P., “ and the devil 
a chance I have of getting in again, if I can’t raise five 
hundred pounds.” 

Heathcote never spoke, but sat ruminating over the news. 


THE O’SHEA AT HIS LODGINGS. 


281 


“Bad luck to the Cabinet!” muttered O’Shea. “Why 
would they put that stupid clause into their Bill? Could n’t 
they wait to smuggle it in on a committee? Here I am clean 
ruined and undone, just as I was on the road to fame and 
fortune. And I can’t even help a friend 1 ” said he, turning 
a pitiful look at Heathcote. 

“ Don’t waste a thought about me ! ” said Heathcote, 
good-humoredly . 

“But I will I ” cried O’Shea. “ I ’ll go down to the Horse 
Guards myself. Sure I’m forgetting already,” added he, 
with a sigh, “ that we ’re all ‘ out ; ’ and now, for a trifle of 
five hundred, there’s a fine chance lost as ever man had. 
You don’t know anybody could accommodate one with a 
loan, — of course, on suitable terms?” 

“ Not one, — not one ! ” 

“ Or who’d do it on a bill at three months, with our own 
names ? ” 

“None!” 

“Isn’t it hard, I ask, — isn’t it cruel, — just as I was 
making a figure in the House ? I was the ‘ rising man of the 
party,’ — so the ‘ Post ’ called me, — and the ‘ Freeman ’ said, 
‘ O’Shea has only to be prudent, and his success is assured.’ 
And was n’t I prudent ? Did n’t I keep out of the divi- 
sions for half the session ? Who ’s your father’s banker^ 
Heathcote ? ” 

“ Drummonds, I believe ; but I don’t know them.” 

“ Murther ! but it is hard ! five hundred, — only five hun- 
dred. A real true-hearted patriot, fresh for his work, and 
without engagements, going for five hundred ! I see you 
feel for me, my dear fellow,” cried he, grasping Heathcote’s 
hand. “I hear what your heart is saying this minute: 
^ O’Shea, old boy, if I had the money, I ’d put it in the palm 
of your hand without the scratch of a pen between us.’” 

“I’m not quite so certain I should,” muttered the other, 
half sulkily. 

“But I know you better than you know yourself, and I 
repeat it. You ’d say, ‘ Gorman O’Shea, I ’m not the man to 
see a first-rate fellow lost for a beggarly five hundred. I ’d 
rather be able to say one of these days, “ Look at that man 
on the Woolsack, — or, maybe, Chief Justice in the Queen’s 


282 


ONE OF THEM. 


Bench — well, would you believe it? if I hadn’t helped him 
one morning with a few hundreds, it ’s maybe in the Serpen- 
tine he ’d have been, instead of up there.” ’ And as we ’d 
sit over a bottle of hock in the bay-window at Eichmond, 
you ’d say, ‘ Does your Lordship remember the night when 
you heard the House was up, and you had n’t as much as 
would pay your fare over to Ireland ? ’ ” 

“I’m not so certain of that^ either,” was the dry response 
of Heathcote. 

“And of what are you certain, then?” cried O’Shea, 
angrily; “for I begin to believe you trust nothing, nor any 
one.” 

“I’ll tell you what I believe, and believe firmly too, — 
which is, that a pair of fellows so completely out at elbows 
as you and myself had far better break stones on a high- 
road for a shilling a day than stand cudgelling their wits 
how to live upon others.” 

“That is not my sentiment at all , — suum cuique^ — 
stone-breaking to the hard-handed; men of our stamp, 
Heathcote, have a right — a vested right — to a smoother 
existence.” 

“Well, time will tell who is right,” said Heathcote, care- 
lessly, as he put on his hat and walked to the door. A half- 
cold good-bye followed, and they parted. 

Hour after hour he walked the streets, unmindful of a 
thin misty rain that fell unceasingly. He was now com- 
pletely alone in the world, and there was a sort of melan- 
choly pleasure in the sense of his desolation. “ My poor 
father! ” he would mutter from time to time; “if I could 
only think that he would forget me! if I could but bring 
myself to believe that after a time he would cease to sorrow 
for me ! ” He did not dare to utter more, nor even to himself 
declare how valueless he deemed life, but strolled listlessly 
onward, till the gray streaks in the murky sky proclaimed 
the approach of morning. 

Was it with some vague purpose or was it by mere acci- 
dent that he found himself standing at last near the barracks 
at Knightsbridge, around the gate of which a group of 
country-looking young fellows was gathered, while here 
and there a sergeant was seen to hover, as if speculating 


THE O’SHEA AT HIS LODGINGS. 


283 


on his prey ? It was a time in which more than one young 
man of station had enlisted as a private, and the sharp eye 
of the crimp soon scanned the upright stature and well-knit 
frame of Heathcote. 

“ Like to be a dragoon, my man? ” said he, with an easy, 
swaggering air. 

“I have some thought of it,” said the other, coldly. 

“You’ve served already, I suspect,” said the sergeant, in 
a more respectful tone. 

“For what regiment are you enlisting? ” asked Heathcote, 
coldly, disregarding the other’s inquiry. 

“Her Majesty’s Bays, — could you ask better? But 
here’s my officer.” 

Before Heathcote had well heard the words, his name was 
called out, and a slight, boyish figure threw his arms about 
him. 

“Charley, how glad I am to see you! ” cried he. 

“Agincourt! — is this you?” said Heathcote, blushing 
deeply as he spoke. 

“Yes, I have had my own way at last; and I’m going to 
India too.” 

“I am not,” said Heathcote, bitterly. “They ’ll not have 
me at the Horse Guards ; I am too old, or too something or 
other for the service, and there ’s nothing left me but to enter 
the ranks.” 

“Oh, Charley,” cried the other, “if you only knew of the 
breaking heart you have left behind you I — if you only 
knew how she, loves you! ” 

Was it that the boyish accents of these few words appealed 
to Heathcote’s heart with all the simple force of truth? — 
was it that they broke in upon his gloom so unexpectedly, 
— a slanting sun-ray piercing a dark cloud? But so it is, 
that he turned away, and drew his hand across his eyes. . 

“I was off for a day’s hunting down in Leicestershire,” 
said Agincourt. “I sent the nags away yesterday. Come 
with me, Charley; we shall be back again to-morrow, and 
you ’ll see if my old guardian won’t set all straight with the 
War-Office people for you. Unless,” added he, in a half- 
whisper, “you choose in the mean while to put your trust in 
what I shall tell you, and go back again.” 


284 


ONE OF THEM. 


‘‘I only hope that I may do so,” said Heathcote, as he 
wrung the other’s hand warmly, “and I’d bless the hour 
that led me here this morning.” 

It was soon arranged between them that Agincourt should 
drive round by Heathcote’ s lodgings and take him up, when 
he had packed up a few things for the journey. O’Shea 
was so sound asleep that he could scarcely be awakened to 
hear his companion say “good-bye.” Some vague, indis- 
tinct idea floated before him that Heathcote had fallen 
upon some good fortune, and, as he shook his hand, he 
muttered, — 

“Go in and win, old fellow; take all you can get, clear 
the beggars out, that ’s my advice to you.” And with 
these sage counsels he turned on his pillow, and snored 
away once more. 

“Wasn’t that Inch-o’-brogue I heard talking to you?” 
asked Agincourt. 

“Yes. The poor fellow, like myself, is sorely hard up 
just now.” 

“ My old governor must get him something. We ’ll think 
of him on our return ; so jump in, Charley, or we shall be 
late for the train.” 

How contagious was that happy boy’s good humor, and 
how soon did his light-heartedness impart its own quality 
to Heathcote’s spirits. As they whirled along through the 
brisk fresh air of the morning, the youth recounted all that 
passed with him since they met, — no very great or stirring 
events were they, it is true, but they were Ais, — and they 
were his first experiences of dawning manhood; and, oh! 
let any of us, now plodding along wearily on the shady side 
of life, only bethink us of the joyful sunshine of our youth, 
when the most commonplace incidents came upon us with 
freshness, and we gloried in the thought of having a “part,” 
an actual character to play, in that grand drama they call 
the World. 

We would not, if we could, recall his story; we could not 
hope that our reader would listen as pleasurably as did 
Heathcote to it; enough that we say they never felt the 
miles go over, nor, till their journey was ended, had a 
thought that they were already arrived at their destination. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


OLD LETTERS. 

The little cottage at Port-na-Whapple, to which Alfred Lay- 
ton had repaired to collect the last few relics of his poor 
mother, had so completely satisfied all his longings for 
quiet seclusion, that he lingered on there in a sort of 
dreamy abstractedness far from unpleasing. Quackinboss 
was with him, but never was there a companion less obtru- 
sive. The honest American delighted in the spot; he was 
a fisherman, and soon became acquainted with all the choice 
places for the take of salmon, while he oftentimes strolled 
inland and whipped the mountain streams with no small 
success. In fact, the gun, the rod, and a well-trained grey- 
hound amply supplied all the demands of the household ; and 
never was there a life less crossed by outward cares than 
theirs. Whether the Colonel believed or not that Layton 
was deeply engaged in his studies, he affected to think so, 
and made a point of interfering as little as possible with the 
other’s time. If by a chance word now and then he would 
advert to their projected trip to America, he never pressed 
the theme, nor seemed in any way to evince over-eagerness 
regarding it. Indeed, with a delicacy of truest refinement, 
he abstained from making Layton ever feel himself con- 
strained by the deep obligations he owed him, so that noth- 
ing could be freer than their intercourse; the only theme 
of gloom between them being the^fate of Layton’s father, 
of which, notwithstanding all their efforts, they could 
obtain no tidings. From the day when he quitted the asy- 
lum, and was pronounced “cured,” nothing was known of 
him. Dr. Millar had assisted in all their inquiries with a 
most friendly interest, and endeavored to induce Alfred to 


286 


ONE OF THEM. 


accept the hospitalities of the vicarage; but this he de- 
clined, making weak health his apology. The vicar, how- 
ever, did not cease to show his constant attention, feeling 
deeply interested in the youth. In nothing did he evince 
this sentiment more than the trouble he gave himself to 
collect the scattered papers and documents of the old Pro- 
fessor. The old man — accustomed ever to an existence of 
emergency — was in the habit of pledging his private papers 
and his own writings for small sums here and there through 
the country ; and thus researches which had cost months of 
labor, investigations of deepest import, were oftentimes 
pawned at a public for a few shillings. Scarcely a day 
went over without some record being brought in by a 
farmer or a small village tradesman; sometimes valueless, 
sometimes of great interest. Now and then they would be 
violent and rebellious pasquinades against men in power, 
— his supposed enemies, — versified slanders upon imagi- 
nary oppressors. 

Neither imbued with Alfred’s taste nor infiuenced by the 
ties of blood, Quackinboss took a pleasure in poring over 
these documents which the young man could not feel. The 
Professor, to him, seemed the true type of intellectual 
power, and he had that bold recklessness of all consequences 
which appealed strongly to the Yankee. He was, as he 
phrased it, an “all-mighty smasher,” and would have been 
a rare man for Congress ! All Alfred’s eagerness to possess 
himself of his father’s papers was soon exceeded by the 
zeal of Quackinboss, who, by degrees, abandoned gun and 
rod to follow out his new pursuit. If he could not estimate 
the value of deep scientific calculations and researches, he 
was fully alive to the sparkling wit and envenomed satire of 
the various attacks upon individuals; and so enamored was 
he of these effusions, that many of the verse ones he had 
committed to memory. 

Poor Alfred! what a struggle was his, as Quackinboss 
would recite some lines of fearful malignity, asking him, 
the while “if all English literature could show such another 
‘ ’tarnal screamer ’ as his own parent? Warn’t he a ‘ right- 
down scarification ’ ? Did n’t he scald the hides of them old 
hogs in the House of Lords? Well, I ’m blest if Mr. Clay 


OLD LETTERS. 


287 


could a-done it better! ” To the young man’s mild sugges- 
tions that his father’s fame would rest upon very different 
labors, Quackinboss would hastily offer rejoinder, “No, sir, 
chemicals is all very well, but human natur’ is a grander 
study than acids and oxides. What goes on in a man’s 
heart is a main sight harder reading than salts and 
sediments.” 

The Colonel had learned in the course of his wanderings 
that a farmer who inhabited one of the lone islands off the 
coast was in possession of an old writing-desk of the Pro- 
fessor, — the pledge for a loan of three pounds sterling, — 
a sum so unusually large as to imply that the property was 
estimated as of value. It was some time before the weather 
admitted of a visit to the spot, but late of a summer’s even- 
ing, as Alfred sat musingly on the door-sill of the cottage, 
Quackinboss was seen approaching with an old-fashioned 
writing-desk under his arm, while he called out, “Here it is; 
and without knowin’ the con-tents, I ’d not swap the plunder 
for a raft of timber ! ” 

If the moment of examining the papers was longed for by 
the impatient Quackinboss with an almost feverish anxiety, 
what was his blank disappointment at finding that, instead 
of being the smart squibs or bitter invectives he delighted 
in, the whole box was devoted to documents relating to a 
curious incident in medical jurisprudence, and was labelled 
on the inner side of the lid, “Hawke’s case, with all the 
tests and other papers.” 

“This seems to have been a great criminal case,” said 
Alfred, “and it must have deeply interested my father, for 
he has actually drawn out a narrative of the whole event, 
and has even journalized his share in the story. 

“ ‘ Strange scene that I have just left, ’ wrote he, in a 
clear, exact hand. ‘ A man very ill — seriously, danger- 
ously ill — in one room, and a party — his guests — all 
deeply engaged at play in the same house. No apparent anx- 
iety about his case, — scarcely an inquiry; his wife — if she 
be his wife, for I have my misgivings about it — eager and 
feverish, following me from place to place, with a sort of 
irresolute effort to say something which she has no courage 
for. Patient worse, — the case a puzzling one ; there is 


288 


ONE OF THEM. 


more than delirium tremens here. But what more ? that ’s the 
question. Kemarkable his anxiety about the sense of burn- 
ing in the throat ; ever asking, “ Is that usual ? is it invari- 
uble ? ” Suspicion, of course, to be looked for ; but why 
does it not extend to me also? Afraid to drink, though his 
thirst is excruciating. Symptoms all worse ; pulse irregu- 
lar; desires to see me alone; his wife, unwilling, tries by 
many pretexts to remain ; he seems to detect her plan, and 
bursts into violent passion, swears at her, and cries out, 
“Ain’t you satisfied? Don’t you see that I ’m dying? ” 

“ ‘We have been alone for above an hour. He has told 
me all ; she is not his wife, but the divorced wife of a well- 
known man in office. Believes she intended to leave him; 
knows, or fancies he knows, her whole project. Rage and 
anger have increased the bad symptoms, and made him 
much worse. Great anxiety about the fate of his child, a 
daughter of his former wife; constantly exclaiming, “They 
will rob her! they will leave her a beggar, and I have none 
to protect her.” A violent paroxysm of pain — agonizing 
pain — has left him very low. 

“‘“What name do you give this malady, doctor?” he 
asks me. 

“ ‘ “It is a gastric inflammation, but not unaccompanied 
by other symptoms.” 

“ ‘ “How brought on? ” 

“ ‘ “No man can trace these affections to primary 
causes.” 

““‘I can, — here, at least,” breaks he in. “This is 
poison, and you know it. Come, sir,” he cried, “be frank 
and honest with one whose moments are to be so few here. 
Tell me, as you would speak the truth in your last hour, am 
I not right ? ” 

“ ‘ “I cannot say with certainty. There are things here 
I am unable to account for, and there are traits which I 
cannot refer to any poisonous agency.” 

“‘“Think over the poisons; you know best. Is it 
arsenic? ” 

“ ‘ “No, certainly not.” 

“ “‘Nor henbane, nor nicotine, nor nitre, nor strychnine, 
— none of these? ” 


OLD LETTERS. 


289 


“ ‘ “None.” 

“ ‘ “How subtle the dogs have been! ” muttered he. 
“What fools they make of you, with all your science! The 
commonest money-changer will detect a spurious shilling, 
but you, with all your learning, are baffled by every coun- 
terfeit case that meets you. Examine, sir; inquire, investi- 
gate well,” he cried; “it is for your honor as a physician 
not to blunder here.” 

“‘“Be calm; compose yourself. These moments of 
passion only waste your strength.” 

“ ‘ “Let me drink, — ^no, from the water- jug; they surely 
have not drugged that ! What are you doing there ? ” 

“ ‘ “I was decanting the tea into a small bottle, that I 
might take it home and test it.” 

“ ‘ “And so,” said he, sighing, “with all your boasted 
skill, it is only after death you can pronounce. It is to aid 
the law, not to help the living, you come. Be it so. But 
mind, sir,” cried he, with a wild energy, “they are all in 
it, — all. Let none escape. And these were my friends!” 
said he, with a smile of inexpressible sorrow. “Oh, what 
friends are a bad man’s friends! You swear to me, doctor, 
if there has been foul play it shall be discovered. They 
shall swing for it. Don’t you screen them. No mumbling, 
sir ; your oath, — your solemn sworn oath ! Take those keys 
and open that drawer there, — no, the second one ; fetch me 
the papers. This was my will two months ago,” said he, 
tearing open the seals of an envelope. “You shall see with 
your own eyes how I meant by her. You will declare to the 
world how you read in my own hand that I had left her 
everything that was not Clara’s by right. Call her here; 
send for her ; let her be present while you read it aloud, and 
let her see it burned afterwards.” 

“ ‘ It was long before I could calm him after this par- 
oxysm. At length he said: “What a guilty conscience will 
be yours if this crime pass unpunished ! ” 

“‘ “If there be a crime, it shall not,” said I, firmly. 

“ ‘ “If it were to do,” muttered he, in a low voice, “I’d 
rather they ’d have shot me; these agonies are dreadful, and 
all this lingering too ! Oh ! could you not hasten it now ? 
But not yet!” cried he, wildly. “I have to tell you about 

19 


290 


ONE OF THEM. 


Clara. They may rob her of all here, but she will be rich 
after all. There is that great tract in America, in Ohio, 
called ‘ Peddar’s Clearings; ’ don’t forget the name. Ped- 
dar’s Clearings, all hers ; it was her mother’s fortune. Har- 
vey Winthrop, in Norfolk, has the titles, and is the guardian 
when I am dead.” ’ ” 

“Why, I know that ’ere tract well; there’s a cousin of 
mine, Obadiah B. Quackinboss, located there, and there ain’t 
finer buckwheat in all the West than is grown on that loca- 
tion. But go on, let ’s hear about this sick fellow.” 

“This is an account of chemical tests, all this here,” said 
Alfred, passing over several leaves of the diary. “It 
seems to have been a difficult investigation, but ending at 
last in the detection of corrosive sublimate.” 

“And it killed him?” 

“Yes; he died on the third evening after this was written. 
Here follows the whole story of the inquest, and a remark- 
able letter, too, signed ‘ T. Towers.’ It is addressed to my 
father, and marked ‘ Private and Secret ’ : ‘ The same hand 
which delivers you this will put you in possession of five 
hundred pounds sterling; and, in return, you will do what- 
ever is necessary to make all safe. There is no evidence, 
except yours, of consequence; and all the phials and bottles 
have been already disposed of. Be cautious, and stand fast 
to yours, — T. T. ’ On a slip watered to this note was 
written; ‘ I am without twenty shillings in the world; my 
shoes are falling to pieces, and my coat threadbare; but I 
cannot do this.’ But what have we here?” cried Alfred, 
as a neatly folded note with deep black margin met his eyes. 
It was a short and most gracefully worded epistle in a lady’s 
hand, thanking Dr. Layton for his unremitting kindness and 
perfect delicacy in a season of unexampled suffering. “I 
cannot,” wrote slie, “leave the island, dearly associated as it 
is with days of happiness, and now more painfully attached 
to my heart by the most terrible of afflictions, without ten- 
dering to the kindest of physicians my last words of grati- 
tude.” The whole, conveyed in lines of strictly conven- 
tional use, gave no evidence of anything beyond a due sense 
of courtesy, and the rigid observance of a fitting etiquette. 
It was very polished in style, and elegant in phraseology; 


OLD LETTERS. 291 

l)ut to have been written amid such scenes as she then lived 
in, it seemed a perfect marvel of unfeeling conduct. 

“That ’ere woman riles me con-siderable,” said Quackin- 
boss; “she doesn’t seem to mind, noways, what has hap- 
pened, and talks of goin* to a new clearin’ quite uncon- 
sarned like. I ain’t afraid of many things, but I ’m darned 
extensive if 1 ’d not be afeard of her! What are you a-por- 
ing over there ? ” 

“It is the handwriting. I am certain I have seen it be- 
fore; but where, how, and when, I cannot bring to mind.” 

“How could you, sir? Don’t all your womankind write 
that sort of up-and-down bristly hand, more like a prickly- 
pear fence than a Christian’s writin’? It ’s all of a piece 
with your Old-World civilization, which tries to make people 
alike, as the eggs in a basket; but they ain’t like, for all 
that. No, sir, nor will any fixin’ make ’em so!” 

“I have certainly seen it before,” muttered Layton to 
himself. 

“I’m main curious to know how your father found out the 
‘ pyson,’ — ain’t it all there? ” 

“Oh, it was a long and very intricate chemical investi- 
gation.” 

“Did he bile him?” 

“Boil him? No,” said he, with diflSculty restraining a 
laugh; “certainly not.” 

“Well, they tell me, sir, there ain’t no other sure way to 
discover it. They always bile ’em in France! ” 

“I am so puzzled by this hand,” muttered Alfred, half 
aloud. 

Quackinboss, equally dfeep in his own speculations, pro- 
ceeded to give an account of the mode of inquiry pursued 
by Frenchmen of science in cases of poisoning, which cer- 
tainly would have astonished M. Orfila, and was only 
brought back from this learned disquisition by Layton’s 
questioning him about “Peddar’s Clearings.” 

“Yes, sir,” said he, “it is con-siderable of a tract, and 
lies between two rivers. There ’s the lines for a new city 
— Pentacolis — laid down there ; and the chief town, 

‘ Measles,’ is a thriving location. My cousin, O. B. Quack- 
inboss, did n’t stump out less than eighty dollars an acre for 
his clearin’, and there ’s better land than his there.” 


292 


ONE OE THEM. 


“So far as appears, then, this is an extensive property 
which is spoken of here ? ” 

“Well, sir, I expect it ’s a matter of half a million of dol- 
lars now, though, mayhap, twenty thousand bought it fifteen 
or sixteen years back.” 

“ I wonder what steps my father took in this affair? I HI 
be very curious to know if he interested himself in the mat- 
ter; for, with his indolent habits, it is just as likely that he 
never moved in it further.” 

“A ’tarnal shame, then, for him, sir, when it was for a 
child left alone and friendless in the world ; and I ’m thinkin* 
indolence ain’t the name to give it.” 

For a moment an angry impulse to reply stirred Layton’s 
blood, but he refrained, and said nothing. 

“I’ll go further,” resumed the American, “and I’ll say 
that if your father did neglect this duty, you are bound to 
look to it. Ay, sir, there ain’t no ways in this world of 
getting out of what we owe one to another. We are most 
of us ready enough to be ‘ generous, ’ but few take trouble 
to be ‘ just.’ ” 

“I believe you are right,” said Layton, reflectively. 

“I know it, sir, — I know it,” said the other, resolutely. 
“There’s a sort of flattery in doing something more than 
we are obliged to do which never comes of doing what is 
strict fair. Ay,” added he, after a moment, “and I ’ve seen 
a man who ’d jump into the sea to save a fellow-creature as 
wouldn’t give a cent to a starving beggar on dry land.” 

“I’ll certainly inquire after this claim, and you ’ll help 
me, Quackinboss ? ” ^ 

“Yes, sir; and there ain’t no honester man in all the 
States to deal with than Harvey Winthrop. I was with him 
the day he cowhided Senator Jared Boles, of Massachusetts, 
and when I observed, ‘ I think you have given him enough,’ 
he said, ‘ Well, sir, though I haven’t the honor of knowing 
you^ if that be your conscientious opinion, I ’ll abstain from 
going further;’ and he did, and we went into the bar to- 
gether, and had a mint julep.” 

“ The trait is worth remembering,” said Layton, dryly. 
“Here’s another reason to cross the Atlantic,” cried he, 
with something of his former energy of voice and look. 


OLD LETTERS. 


293 


“Here’s a great cause to sustain and a problem to work 
out. Shall we go at once ? ” 

“There’s the ‘Asia ’to sail on Wednesday, and I’m 
ready,” said Quackinboss, calmly. 

“ Wednesday be it, then,” cried Layton, with a gayety 
that showed how the mere prospect of activity aud exer- 
tion had already cheered him. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


TWIST, TROVER, AND CO. 

They whose notions of a banker are formed on such home 
models as Overend and Gurney and Drummond, and the 
other princes o’ that ilk, will be probably not a little shocked 
to learn by what inferior dignitaries the great craft is repre- 
sented abroad ; your English banker in a foreign city being 
the most extraordinary agglomeration of all trades it is well 
possible to conceive, combining within himself very commonly 
the duties of house-agent, wine-merchant, picture-dealer, 
curiosity-vendor, with agencies for the sale of india-rubber 
shoes, Cuban cigars, and cod-liver oil. He will, at a mo- 
ment’s notice, start you with a whole establishment from 
kitchen to stable, and, equally ready to do the honors of 
this world or the next, he will present you in society, or 
embalm you with every careful direction for your convey- 
ance “homeward.” Well judging that in dealing thus 
broadly with mankind a variety of tastes and opinions 
must be consulted, they usually hunt in couples, one doing 
the serious, the other taking the light comedy parts. The 
one is the grave, calm, sensible man, with his prudent reserves 
and his cautious scruples ; the other, a careless dog, who only 
“ discounts ” out of fun, and charges you “ commission” in 
mere pastime and lightness of heart. 

Imagine the heavy father and the light rake of comedy 
conspiring for some common object, and you have them. 
Probably the division-of-labor science never had a happier 
illustration than is presented by their agreement. Who, I 
ask you, who can escape the double net thus stretched 
for his capture ? Whatever your taste or temperament, you 
must surely be approachable by one or the other of these. 


TWIST, TROVER, AND CO. 


295 


What 'Trover cannot, Twist will be certain to accomplish; 
where Twist fails, there Trover is sovereign. “Ah, you T1 
have to ask my partner about that,” is the stereotyped saying 
of each. It was thus these kings of Brentford sniffed at the 
same nosegay, the world, and, sooth to say, to their manifest 
self-satisfaction and profit. If the compact worked well for 
all the purposes of catching clients, it was more admirable 
still in the difficult task of avoiding them. Strange and 
exceptional must his station in life be to whom the secret in- 
telligences of Twdst or Trover could not apply. Were we 
about to dwell on these gentlemen and their characteristics, 
we might advert to the curious fact that though their common 
system worked so smoothly and successfully, they each main- 
tained for the other the most disparaging opinion, Twist deem- 
ing Trover a light, thoughtless, inconsiderate creature. Tro- 
ver returning the compliment by regarding his partner as a 
bigoted, low-minded, vulgar sort of fellow, useful behind 
the desk, but with no range of speculation or enterprise about 
him. 

Our present scene is laid at Mr. Trover’s villa near Flor- 
ence. It stands on the sunny slope of Fiezole, and with a 
lovely landscape of the Val d’ Arno at its feet. O ye gentles, 
who love to live at ease, to inhale an air odorous with the 
jasmine and the orange-flower, — to gaze on scenes more 
beautiful than Claude ever painted, — to enjoy days of 
cloudless brightness, and nights gorgeous in starry bril- 
liancy, why do ye not all come and live at Fiezole? Mr. 
Trover’s villa is now to let, though this announcement is 
•not inserted as an advertisement. There was a rumor that 
it was once Boccaccio’s villa. Be that as it may, it was a 
pretty, coquettish little place, with a long terrace in front, 
under which ran an orangery, a sweet, cool, shady retreat 
in the hot noon-time, with a gushing little fountain always 
rippling and hissing among rock-work. The garden sloped 
away steeply. It was a sort of wilderness of flowers and 
fruit-trees, little cared for or tended, but beautiful in the 
wild luxuriance of its varied foliage, and almost oppres- 
sive in its wealth of perfume. Looking over this garden, 
and beyond it again, catching the distant domes of Flor- 
ence, the tall tower of the Palazzo Vecchio, and the mas- 


296 


ONE OF THEM. 


sive block of the Pilti, was a small but well-proportioned 
room whose frescos were carried from wall to ceiling by 
a gentle arch of the building, in which were now seated 
three gentlemen over their dessert. Mr. Trover’s guests 
were our acquaintances Stocmar and Ludlow Paten. The 
banker and the “ Impresario ” were very old friends; they 
had done “ no end of shrewd things ” together. Paten was a 
new acquaintance. Introduced however by Stocmar, he was 
at once admitted to all the intimacy of his host, and they 
sat there, in the free indulgence of confidence, discussing 
people, characters, events, and probabilities, as three such 
men, long case-hardened with the world’s trials, well versed 
in its wiles, may be supposed to do. Beneath the great 
broad surface of this life of ours, with its apparent im- 
pulses and motives, there is another stratum of hard stern 
realities, in which selfish motives and interested actions 
have their sphere. These gentlemen lived entirely in this 
layer, and never condescended to allude to what went on 
elsewhere. If they took a very disparaging view of life, 
it was not so much the admiration they bestowed on 
knavery as the hearty contempt they entertained for what- 
ever was generous or trustful. Oh, how they did laugh at 
the poor “muffs” who believed in anything or any one! 
To listen to them was to declare that there was not a 
good trait in the heart, nor an honest sentiment which 
had not its origin in folly. And the stupid dog who paid 
his father’s debts, and the idiot that beggared himself to 
portion his sisters, and the wretched creature who was 
ruined by giving security for his friend, all figured in a 
category despised and ridiculed ! 

“ Were they happy in this theory? ” you ask, perhaps. It 
is very hard to answer the question. They were undoubtedly 
what is called “jolly;” they laughed much, and seemed 
marvellously free from care and anxiety. 

“ And so. Trover,” said Stocmar, as he sipped his claret 
luxuriously, — “ and so you tell me this is a bad season with 
you out here, — few travellers, no residents, and little stirring 
in the way of discounts and circular notes.” 

“ Wretched ! miserable ! ” cried the banker. ^^The people 
who come out from England nowadays are mostly small 


TWIST, TROVER, AND CO. 


297 


twenty-pounders, looking sharp to the exchanges, and 
watching the quotations like money -brokers.” 

“ Where are the fast men all gone to? That is a problem 
puzzles me much,” said Paten. 

“ They have gone over to Puseyism, and stained glass, 
and Saint Winifred’s shin-bones, and early Christian art,” 
broke in Stocmar. “I know them well, and their velvet 
paletots cut in the mediaeval fashion, and their hair cut 
straight over the forehead.” 



“How slow a place must become with such fellows!” 
sighed Paten. 

“ The women are mostly pretty ; they dress with a sort of 
quaint coquetry very attractive, and they have a kind of 
demure slyness about them, with a fascination all its own.” 

“ We have the exact type you describe here at this moment 
now,” said the banker. “ She never goes into society, but 
steals furtively about the galleries, making copies of old 
Giottos, and such-like, and even penetrating into the monas- 
teries with a special permission from the Cardinal- Secretary 
to examine the frescos.” 

“ Is she young? Is she pretty?” asked Stocmar. 



298 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ She is both, and a widow, I believe, — at least, her letters 
come to the bank addressed Mrs. Penthony Morris.” 

Paten started, but a slight kick under the table from Stoc- 
mar recalled him to caution and self-possession. 

“ Tell us more about her. Trover; all that you know, in 
fact.” 

“ Five words will suffice for that. She lives here with the 
family of a certain Sir William Heathcote, and apparently 
exercises no small influence amongst them ; at least, the 
tradespeople tell me they are referred to her for everything, 
and all the letters we get about transfers of stock, and such- 
like, are in her hand.” 

“You have met her, and spoken with her, I suppose?” 
asked Stocmar. 

“ Only once. I waited upon her, at her request, to confer 
with her about her daughter, whom she had some intention 
of placing at the Conservatoire at Milan, as a preparation 
for the stage, and some one had told her that I knew all the 
details necessary.” 

‘ ‘ Have you seen the girl ? ” 

“Yes, and heard her sing. Frightened enough she was, 
poor thing ; but she has a voice like Sontag’s, just a sort of 
mellow, rich tone they run upon just now, and with a com- 
pass equal to Malibran’s.” 

“ And her look? ” 

“Strikingly handsome. She is very young; her mother 
says nigh sixteen, but I should guess her at under fifteen 
certainly. I thought at once of writing to you^ Stocmar, 
when I saw her. I know how eagerly you snatch up such a 
chance as this ; but as you were on your way out, I deferred 
to mention her till you came.” 

“ And what counsel did you give her. Trover? ” 

“ I said,. ‘ By all means devote her to the Opera. It is to 
women, in our age, what the career of politics is to men, the 
only royal road to high ambition.’ ” 

“That is what I tell all my young prime donne,” said 
Stocmar. “ I never fail to remind them that any debutante 
may live to be a duchess.” 

“ And they believe you? ” asked Paten. 

“ To be sure they do. Why, man, there is an atmosphere 


TWIST, TROVER, AND CO. 


299 


of credulity about a theatre that makes one credit anything, 
except what is palpably true. Every manager fancies he is 
making a fortune ; every tenor imagines he is to marry a 
princess ; and every fiddler in the orchestra firmly believes 
in the time when a breathless audience will be listening to 
his ‘ solo.* ** 

“ I wish, with all my heart, I was on the stage, then,’* ex- 
claimed Paten. “ I should certainly like to imbibe some of 
this sanguine spirit.” 

“You are too old a dram-drinker, Ludlow, to be intoxi- 
cated with such light tipple,” said Stocmar. “ You have 
tasted of the real ‘ tap.’ ” 

“ That have I,” said he, with a sigh that told how intensely 
he felt the words ; and then, as if to overcome the sad im- 
pression, he asked, “And the girl, is she to take to the 
stage ? ” 

“ I believe Stocmar will have to decide the point ; at least, 
I told her mother that he was on his way to Italy, and that 
his opinion on such a matter might be deemed final. Our 
friend here,” continued Trover, as he pointed laughingly to 
Stocmar, — “ our friend here buys up these budding celebri- 
ties just as Anderson would a yearling colt, and, like him 
too, would reckon himself well paid if one succeed in 
twenty.” 

“Ay, one in fifty. Trover,” broke in Stocmar. “It is 
quite true. Many a stone does not pay for the cutting ; but 
as we always get the lot cheap, we can afford to stand the 
risk.” 

“ She’s a strange sort of woman, this Mrs. Morris,” said 
Trover, after a pause, “ for she seems hesitating between the 
Conservatoire and a convent.” 

“ Is the girl a Catholic? ” 

“ No ; but her mother appears to consider that as a minor 
circumstance ; in fact, she strikes me as one of those people 
who, when they determine to go to a place, are certain to 
cut out a road for themselves.” 

“ That she is ! ” exclaimed Paten. 

“ Oh, then, you are acquainted with her? ” cried Trover. 

“ No, no,” said he, hurriedly. “ I was merely judging 
from your description of her. Such a woman as you have 


300 


ONE OF THEM. 


pictured I can imagine, just as if I had known her all my 
life.” 

“ I should like to see both mother and daughter,” broke in 
Stocmar. 

“ I fancy she will have no objection ; at least, she said to 
me, ‘ You will not fail to inform me of your friend Mr. 
Stocmar’s arrival here ; ’ and I promised as much.” 

“ Well, you must arrange our meeting speedily. Trover, 
for I mean to be at Naples next week, at Barcelona and 
Madrid the week after. The worthy Public, for whose 
pleasure I provide, will, above all things, have novelty, — 
excellence, if you can, but novelty must be procured them.” 

“ Leave it to me, and you shall have an interview to- 
morrow or the day after.” 

A strange telegraphic intelligence seemed to pass from 
Paten to the manager, for Stocmar quickly said, “ By the 
way, don’t drop any hint that Paten is with me ; he has n’t 
got the best of reputations behind the scenes, and it would, 
perhaps, mar all our arrangements to mention him.” 

Trover put a finger to his lips in sign of secrecy, and 
said, “You are right there. She repeatedly questioned 
me on the score of your own morality, Stocmar, expressing 
great misgivings about theatrical folk generally.” 

“ Take my word for it, then, the lady is a fast one herself,” 
said Stocmar; “for, like the virtuous Pangloss, she knows 
what wickedness is.” 

“ It is deuced hard to say what she is,” broke in Trover. 
“ My partner. Twist, declares she must have been a stock- 
broker or a notary public. She knows the whole share-list 
of Europe, and can quote you the ‘ price current ’ of every 
security in the Old World or the New ; not to say that she 
is deeply versed in all the wily relations between the course 
of politics and the exchanges, and can surmise, to a nicety, 
how every spoken word of a minister can react upon the 
money-market.” 

“ She cannot have much to do with such interests, I take 
it,” said Paten, in assumed indifference. 

“ Not upon her own account, certainly,” replied Trover; 
“but such is her influence over this old Baronet, that she 
persuades him to sell out here, and buy in there, just as the 
mood inclines her.” 


TWIST, TROVER, AND CO. 


301 


“ And is he so very rich?” asked Stocmar. 

“ Twist thinks not ; he suspects that the money all belongs 
to a certain Miss Leslie, the ward of Sir William, but who 
came of age a short time back.” 

“Now, what may her fortune be?” said Stocmar, in a 
careless tone; “in round numbers, I -mean, and not caring 
for a few thousands more or less.” 

“ I have no means of knowing. I can only guess it must 
be very large. It was only on Tuesday last she bought in 
about seven-and-twenty thousand ‘Arkansas New Bonds,* 
and we have an order this morning to transfer thirty-two 
thousand more into Illinois ‘ Sevens.’ ” 

“ All going to America ! ” cried Paten. “ Why does she 
select investment there ? ” 

“That’s the widow’s doing. She says that the Old 
World is going in for a grand smash. That Louis Napoleon 
will soon have to throw off the mask, and either avow him- 
self the head of the democracy, or brave its vengeance, and 
that either declaration will be the signal for a great war. 
Then she assumes that Austria, pushed hard for means to 
carry on the struggle, will lay hands on the Church property 
of the empire, and in this way outrage all the nobles whose 
families were pensioned off on these resources, thus of neces- 
sity throwing herself on the side of the people. In a word, 
she looks for revolution, convulsion, and a wide-spread ruin, 
and says the Yankees are the only people who will escape. 
I know little or nothing of such matters myself, but she sent 
Twist home t’ other day in such a state of ‘alarm that he tele- 
graphed Jo Turin to transfer all his ‘ Sardinians’ into ‘ New 
Yorkers,’ and has been seriously thinking of establishing 
himself in Broadway.” 

“ I wish she ’d favor me with her views about theatrical 
property,” said Stocmar, with a half sneer, “ and what is to 
become of the Grand Opera in the grand smash.” 

“Ask her, and she’ll tell you,” cried Trover. “You’ll 
never pose her with a difficulty ; she ’ll give you a plan for 
paying off the national debt, tell you how to recruit the 
finances of India, conduct the Chinese war, or oppose French 
intrigues in Turkey, while she stitches away at her Berlin 
work. I give you my word, while she was finishing off the 


302 


ONE OE THEM. 


end of an elephant’s snout in brown worsted, t’ other day, 
she restored the Murats to Naples, gave Sicily to Russia, 
and sent the Pope, as head of a convict establishment, to 
Cayenne.” 

“ Is she a little touched in the upper story? ” asked Stoc- 
mar, laying his finger on his forehead. 

“ Twist says not. Twist calls her the wiliest serpent he 
ever saw, but not mad.” 

“And now a word about the daughter,” cried Stocmar. 
“ What’s the girl like? ” 

“Pretty, — very pretty; long eyelashes, very regular 
features, a beautiful figure; and the richest auburn hair 1 
ever saw, but, with all that, none of the mother’s esprit^ — 
no smartness, no brilliancy. In fact, I should call her a 
regular mope.” 

“ She is very young, remember,” broke in Stocmar. 

“ That ’s true ; but with such a clever mother, if she really 
had any smartness, it would certainly show itself. Now, it 
is not only that she displays no evidence of superior mind, 
but she wears an air of depression and melancholy that 
seems like a sort of confession of her own insufficiency, 
so Twist says, and Twist is very shrewd as to character.” 

“I can answer for it, he’s devilish close-fisted as to 
money,” said Stocmar, laughing. 

“ I remember,” chimed in Trover; “ he told me that you 
came into the bank with such a swaggering air, and had 
such a profusion of gold chains, rings, and watch-trinkets, 
that he set you down for one of the swell-mob out on a 
tour.” 

“Civil, certainly,” said Stocmar, “but as little flattering 
to his own perspicuity as to myself. But I ’ll never forget 
the paternal tone in which he whispered me afterwards, 
‘Whenever you want a discount, Mr. Stocmar, from a 
stranger, — an utter stranger, — don’t wear an opal pin set 
in brilliants ; it don’t do, I assure you it don’t’ ” Stocmar 
gave such a close imitation of the worthy banker’s voice and 
utterance, that his partner laughed heartily. 

“ Does he ever give a dinner, Trover? ” asked Stocmar. 

“ Oh yes, he gives one every quarter. Our graver clients, 
who would not venture to come up here, dine with him, and 


TWIST, TROVER, AND CO. 


3oa 

he treats them to sirloins and saddles, with Gordon’s sherry 
and a very fruity port, made especially, I believe, for men 
with good balances to their names.” 

“ I should like to be present at one of these festivals.” 

“You have no chance, Stocmar; he’d as soon think of 
inviting the corps de ballet to tea. I myself am never ad- 
mitted to such celebrations.” 

“ What rogues these fellows are, Ludlow ! ” said Stocmar. 
“ If you and I were to treat the world in this fashion, what 
would be said of us ! The real humbugs of this life are the 
fellows that play the heavy parts.” And with this reflection, 
whose image was derived from his theatrical experiences, he 
arose, to take his coffee on the terrace. 


CHAPTER XXXL 


IN THE TOILS. 

Mrs. Morris gave directions that when a gentleman should 
call to inquire for her he should be at once introduced, a 
brief note from Mr. Trover having apprised her that Mr. 
Stocmar had just arrived, and would wait upon her without 
further delay. There was not in her air or manner the 
slightest trait of inquietude or even impatience ; as she sat 
there, still stitching away at her Berlin elephant, she seemed 
an emblem of calm, peaceful contentedness. Her half- 
mourning, perhaps, sobered down somewhat the character 
of her appearance; but these lilac-colored ribbons har- 
monized well with her fair skin, and became her much. 

With a tact all her own, she had carefully avoided in the 
arrangement of her room any of those little artistic effects 
which, however successful with the uninitiated, would be 
certain of a significant appreciation from one familiar with 
stage “get up” and all the suggestive accessories of the 
playhouse. “No,” thought she, — “no half-open miniatures, 
no moss-roses in Bohemian glass — not even a camellia — 
on my work-table for Mr. Stocmar.” Even Lila, her 
Italian greyhound, was dismissed from her accustomed 
cushion on that morning, lest her presence might argue 
effect. 

She knew well that such men as Stocmar have a sort of 
instinctive appreciation of a locality, and she determined 
he should have the fewest possible aids to his interpretation 
of herself. If, at certain moments, a terrible dread would 
cross her mind that this man might know all her history, 
who she was, and in what events mixed up, she rallied 
quickly from these fears by recalling how safe from all 
discovery she had lived for several years back. Indeed, 


IN THE TOILS. 


305 


personally, she was scarcely known at all, her early married 
life having been passed in almost entire reclusion; while, 
later on, her few acquaintances were the mere knot of men 
in Hawke’s intimacy. 

There was also another reflection that supplied its conso- 
lation : the Stocmars of this world are a race familiar with 
secrets; their whole existence is passed in hearing and 
treasuring up stories in which honor, fame, and all future 
happiness are often involved ; they are a sort of lay priest- 
hood to the “fast” world, trusted, consulted, and confided 
in on all sides. “If he should know me,” thought she, “it 
is only to make a friend of him, and no danger can come 
from that quarter.” Trover’s note said, “Mr. Stocmar 
places his services at your feet, too proud if in any way they 
can be useful to you;” a mere phrase, after all, which 
might mean much or little, as it might be. At the same 
time she bore in mind that such men as Stocmar were as 
little addicted to rash pledges as Cabinet ministers. Too 
much harassed and worried by solicitation, they usually 
screened themselves in polite generalities, and never incurred 
the embarrassment of promising anything, so that, thus 
viewed, perhaps, he might be supposed as well-intentioned 
towards her. 

Let us for a moment — a mere moment — turn to Stocmar 
himself, as he walked up and down a short garden alley of 
Trover’s garden with Paten by his side. 

“Above all things, remember, Stocmar, believe nothing she 
tells you, if she only tell it earnestly. Any little truth she 
utters will drop out unconsciously, never with asseveration.” 

“I’m prepared for that,” replied he, curtly. 

“She ’ll try it on, too, with fifty little feminine tricks and 
graces; and although you may fancy you know the whole 
armory, pardi! she has weapons you never dreamed of.” 

“Possibly,” was the only rejoinder. 

“Once for all,” said Paten, — and there was impatience 
in his tone, — “I tell you she is a greater actress than any 
of your tragedy queens behind the footlights.” 

“Don’t you know what Talleyrand said to the Emperor, 
Ludlow? ‘ I think your Majesty may safely rely upon me 
for the rogueries.’ ” 


20 


306 


ONE OF THEM. 


Paten shook his head dissentingly; he was very far from 
feeling the combat an equal one. 

Stocmar, however, reminded him that his visit was to be 
a mere reconnaissance of the enemy, which under no circum- 
stances was to become a battle. “ I am about to wait upon 
her with reference to a daughter she has some thoughts of 
devoting to the stage, — voila tout ! I never heard of you in 
my life, — never heard of Aer, — know absolutely nothing of 
her history, save by that line in the ‘ Times ’ newspaper 
some six weeks ago, which recorded the death of Captain 
Penthony Morris, by fever, in Upper India.” 

That will do; keep to that,” cried Paten more cheerfully, 
as he shook his friend’s hand and said good-bye. 

Your shrewd men of the world seldom like to be told that 
any circumstance can arise which may put their acuteness 
to the test; they rather like to believe themselves always 
prepared for every call upon their astuteness. Stocmar 
therefore set out in a half-irritation, which it took the three 
miles of his drive to subdue. 

“Mrs. Penthony Morris at home?” asked he of the 
discreet-looking English servant whom Sir William’s home 
prejudices justly preferred to the mongrel and moustachioed 
domestics of native breed. 

“At home for Mr. Stocmar, sir,” said the man, half 
inquiring, as he bowed deferentially, and then led the way 
upstairs. 

When Stocmar entered the room, he was somewhat disap- 
pointed. Whether it was that he expected to see something 
more stately, haughty, and majestic, like Mrs. Siddons 
herself, or that he counted upon being received with a cer- 
tain show of warmth and welcome, but the lady before him 
was slight, almost girlish in figure, blushed a little when he 
addressed her, and, indeed, seemed to feel the meeting as 
awkward a thing as need be. 

“I have to thank you very gratefully, sir,” began she, “for 
condescending to spare me a small portion of time so valu- 
able as yours. Mr. Trover says your stay here will be very 
brief.” 

“Saturday, if I must, Friday, if I can, will be the limit, 
madam,” said he, coldly. 


IN THE TOILS. 


307 


“Indeed!” exclaimed she. “I was scarcely prepared for 
so short a visit; but I am aware how manifold must be 
your engagements.” 

“Yes, madam. Even these seasons, which to the world 
are times of recreation and amusement, are, in reality, to 
us periods of active business occupation. Only yesterday 
I heard a barytone before breakfast, listened to the grand 
chorus in the ‘ Huguenots ’ in my bath, while T decided on 
the merits of a ballerina as I sat under the hands of my 
barber.” 

“And, I venture to say, liked it all,” said she, with an 
outbreak of frank enjoyment in his description. 

“Upon my life, I believe you are right,” said he. “One 
gets a zest for a pursuit till everything else appears value- 
less save the one object ; and, for my own part, I acknowl- 
edge I have the same pride in the success of my new tenor 
or my prima donna, as though I had my share in the gifts 
which secure it.” 

“I can fancy all that,” said she, in a low, soft voice. 
And then, stealing a look of half admiration at her visitor, 
she dropped her eyes again suddenly, with a slight show of 
confusion. 

“I assure you,” continued he, with warmth, “the season 
I brought out Cianchettoni, whenever he sang a little 
huskily I used to tell my friends I was suffering with a 
sore- throat.” 

“What a deal of sympathy it betrays in your nature!” 
said she, with a bewitching smile. “And talking of sore- 
throats, don’t sit there in the draught, but take this chair, 
here.” And she pointed to one at her side. 

As Stocmar obeyed, he was struck by the beauty of her 
profile. It was singularly regular, and more youthful in 
expression than her full face He was so conscious of hav- 
ing looked at her admiringly that he hastened to cover the 
awkwardness of the moment by plunging at once into the 
question of business. “Trover has informed me, madam,” 
began he, “as to the circumstances in which my very 
humble services can be made available to you. He tells 
me that you have a daughter — ” 

“Not a daughter, sir,” interrupted she, in a low, confiden- 


308 


ONE OF THEM. 


tial voice, “a niece, — the daughter of a sister now no 
more.” 

The agitation the words cost her increased Stocmar’s con- 
fusion, as though he had evidently opened a subject of 
family affliction. Yes, her handkerchief was to her eyes, 
and her shoulders heaved convulsively. “Mr. Stocmar,” 
said she, with an effort which seemed to cost her deeply, 
“though we meet for the first time, I am no stranger to your 
character. I know your generosity, and your high sense of 
honor. I am well aware how persons of the highest station 
are accustomed to confide in your integrity, and in that 
secrecy which is the greatest test of integrity. I, a poor 
friendless woman, have no claim to prefer to your regard, 
except in the story of my misfortunes, and which, in com- 
passion to myself, I will spare you. If, however, you are 
willing to befriend me on trust, — that is, on the faith that 
I am one not undeserving of your generosity, and entitled at 
some future day to justify my appeal to it, — if, I say, you 
be ready and willing for this, say so, and relieve my in- 
tense anxiety ; or if — ” 

“Madam! ” broke he in, warmly, “do not agitate yourself 
any more. I pledge myself to be your friend.” 

With a bound she started from her seat, and, seizing his 
hand, pressed it to her lips, and then, as though overcome 
by the boldness of the action, she covered her face and 
sobbed bitterly. If Stocmar muttered some unmeaning 
commonplaces of comfort and consolation, he was in reality 
far more engrossed by contemplating a foot and ankle of 
matchless beauty, and which, in a moment so unguarded, 
had become accidentally exposed to view. 

“ I am, then, to regard you as my friend ? ” said she, try- 
ing to smile through her tears, while she bent on him a look 
of softest meaning. She did not, however, prolong a situa- 
tion so critical, but at once, and with an impetuosity that 
bespoke her intense anxiety, burst out into the story of her 
actual calamities. Never was there a narrative more diffi- 
cult to follow ; broken at one moment by bursts of sorrow, 
heart-rending regrets, or scarce less poignant expressions 
of a resignation that savored of despair. There had been 
something very dreadful, and somebody had been terribly 


IN THE TOILS. 


309 


cruel, and the world — cold-hearted and unkind as it is — 
had been even unkinder than usual. And then she was too 
proud to stoop to this or accept that. “You surely would 
not have wished me to?” cried she, looking into his eyes 
very meltingly. And then there was a loss of fortune some- 
how and somewhere; a story within a story, like a Chinese 
puzzle. And there was more cruelty from the world, and 
more courage on her part ; and then there were years of such 
suffering, — years that had so changed her. “Ah! Mr. 
Stocmar, you would n’t know me if you had seen me in those 
days ! ” Then there came another bewitching glance from 
beneath her long eyelashes, as with a half-sigh she said, 
“You now know it all, and why my poor Clara must adopt 
the stage, for I have concealed nothing from you, — 
nothing ! ” 

“I am to conclude, then, madam,” said he, “that the 
young lady herself has chosen this career ? ” 

“Nothing of the kind, my dear Mr. Stocmar. I don’t 
think she ever read a play in her life; she has certainly 
never seen one. Of the stage, and its ambitions and tri- 
umphs, she has not the very vaguest notion, nor do I be- 
lieve, if she had, would anything in the world induce her to 
adopt it.” 

“ This is very strange ; I am afraid I scarcely understand 
you,” broke he in. 

“Very probably not, sir; but I will endeavor to explain 
my meaning. From the circumstances I narrated to you 
awhile ago, and from others which it is unnecessary for me 
to enter upon, I have arrived at the conclusion that Clara 
and I must separate. She has reached an age in which 
either her admissions or her inquiries might prove compro- 
mising. My object would therefore be to part with her in 
such a manner as might exclude our meeting again, and 
my plan was to enter her as a pupil at the Conservatoire, 
either at Bologna or Milan, having first selected some one 
who would assume the office of her guardian, as it were, 
replacing me in my authority over her. If her talents and 
acquirements were such as to suit the stage, I trusted to 
the effect of time and the infiuence of companionship to 
reconcile her to the project.” 


310 


ONE OF THEM. 


“And may I ask, madam, have you selected the person to 
whom this precious treasure is to be confided ? — the guar- 
dian, I mean.” 

“ I have seen him and spoken with him, sir, but have not 
yet asked his acceptance of the trust.” 

“Shall I be deemed indiscreet if I inquire his name?” 

“By no means, sir. He is a gentleman of well-known 
character and repute, and he is called — Mr. Stocmar.” 

“Surely, madam, you cannot mean me?” cried he, with a 
start. 

“No other, sir. Had I the whole range of mankind to 
choose from, you would be the man ; you embrace within 
yourself all the conditions the project requires ; you possess 
all the special knowledge of the subject; you are a man of 
the world fully competent to decide what should be done, 
and how ; you have the character of being one no stranger 
to generous motives, and you can combine a noble action 
with, of course, a very inadequate but still some personal 
advantage. This young lady will, in short, be yours ; and 
if her successes can be inferred from her abilities, the bribe 
is not despicable.” 

“Let us be explicit and clear,” said Stocmar, drawing 
his chair closer to her, and talking in a dry, business- 
like tone. “ You mean to constitute me as the sole guide 
and director of this young lady, with full power to direct 
her studies, and, so to say, arbitrate for her future in 
life.” 

“Exactly,” was the calm reply. 

“And what am I to give in return, madam? What is to 
be the price of such an unlooked-for benefit ? ” 

“Secrecy, sir, — inviolable secrecy, — your solemnly 
sworn pledge that the compact between us will never be 
divulged to any, even your dearest friend. When Clara 
leaves me, you will bind yourself that she is never to be 
traced to me ; that no clew shall ever be found to connect 
us one with the other. With another name who is to know 
her? ” 

Stocmar gazed steadfastly at her. Was it that in a 
moment of forgetfulness she had suffered herself to speak 
too frankly, for her features had now assumed a look of 


m THE TOILS. 311 

almost sternness, the very opposite to their expression 
hitherto. 

“And can you part with your niece so easily as this, 
madam ? ” asked he. 

“She is not my niece, sir,” broke she in, with impetu- 
osity ; “ we are on honor here, and so I tell you she is noth- 
ing — less than nothing — to me. An unhappy event — a 
terrible calamity — bound up our lot for years together. It 
is a compact we are each weary of, and I have long told 
her that I only await the arrival of her guardian to relieve 
myself of a charge which brings no pleasure to either of 
us.” 

“You have given me a right to be very candid with you, 
madam,” said Stocmar. “May I adventure so far as to 
ask what necessity there can possibly exist for such a sepa- 
ration as this you now contemplate ? ” 

“You are evidently resolved, sir, to avail yourself of your 
privilege,” said she, with a slight irritation of manner; 
“but when people incur a debt, they must compound for 
being dunned. You desire to know why I wish to part with 
this girl ? I will tell you. I mean to cut off all connection 
with the past; and she belongs to it. I mean to carry with 
me no memories of that time; and she is one of them. I 
mean to disassociate myself from whatever might suggest 
a gloomy retrospect; and this her presence does continually. 
Perhaps, too, I have other plans, — plans so personal that 
your good breeding and good taste would not permit you to 
penetrate.” 

Though the sarcasm in which these last words were 
uttered was of the faintest, Stocmar felt it, and blushed 
slightly as he said: “You do me but justice, madam. I 
would not presume so far! Now, as to the question itself,” 
said he, after a pause, “it is one requiring some time for 
thought and reflection.” 

“Which is what it does not admit of, sir,” broke she in. 
“It was on Mr. Trover’s assurance that you were one of 
those who at once can trust themselves to say ‘ I will, ’ or ‘ I 
will not,’ that I determined to see you. If the suddenness 
of the demand be the occasion of any momentary incon- 
venience as to the expense, I ought to mention that she is 


312 


ONE OF' THEM. 


entitled to a few hundred pounds, — less, I think, than five, 
— which, of course, could be forthcoming.” 

“A small consideration, certainly, madam,” said he, 
bowing, “but not to be overlooked.” He arose and walked 
the room, as though deep in thought ; at last, halting before 
her chair, and fixing a steady but not disrespectful gaze on 
her, he said, “I have but one difficulty in this affair, 
madam, but yet it is one which I know not how to 
surmount.” 

“State it, sir,” said she, calmly. 

“It is this, madam: in the most unhappy newness of our 
acquaintance I am ignorant of many things which, however 
anxious to know, I have no distinct right to ask, so that I 
stand between the perils of my ignorance and the greater 
perils of possible presumption.” 

“I declare to you frankly, sir, I cannot guess to what 
you allude. If I only surmised- what these matters were, I 
might possibly anticipate your desire to hear them.” 

“May I dare, then, to be more explicit?” asked he, half 
timidly. 

“It is for you, sir, to decide upon that,” said she, with 
some haughtiness. 

“Well, madam,” said he, boldly, “I want to know are 
you a widow ? ” 

“Yes, sir,” said she, with a calm composure. 

“Am I, then, to believe that you can act free and uncon- 
trolled, without fear of any dictation or interference from 
others ? ” 

“Of course, sir.” 

“I mean, in short, madam, that none can gainsay any 
rights you exercise, or revoke any acts you execute ? ” 

“Really, sir, I cannot fancy any other condition of exist- 
ence, except it be to persons confined in an asylum.” 

“Nay, madam, you are wrong there,” said he, smiling; 
“the life of every one is a network of obligations and ties, 
not a whit the less binding that they are not engrossed on 
parchment, and attested by three witnesses; liberty to do 
this, or to omit that, having always some penalty as a 
consequence.” 

“Oh, sir, spare me these beautiful moralizings, which only 


IN THE TOILS. 


313 


confuse my poor weak woman’s head, and just say how they 
address themselves to me.” 

“Thus far, madam: that your right over the young lady 
cannot be contested nor shared ? ” 

“Certainly not. It is with me to decide for her.” 

“When, with your permission, I have seen her and spoken 
with her, if I find that no obstacle presents itself, why then, 
madam, I accept the charge — ” 

“And are her guardian,” broke she in. “Remember, it is 
in that character that you assume your right over her. I 
need not tell a person of such tact as yours how necessary 
it will be to reply cautiously and guardedly to all inquiries, 
from whatever quarter coming, nor how prudent it will be to 
take her away at once from this.” 

“I will make arrangements this very day. I will tele- 
graph to Milan at once,” said he. 

“Oh, dear! ” sighed she, “what a moment of relief is this, 
after such a long, long period of care and anxiety I ” 

The great sense of relief implied in these words scarcely 
seemed to have extended itself to Mr. Stocmar, who walked 
up and down the room in a state of the deepest preoccu- 
pation. 

“I wish sincerely,” said he, half in soliloquy, — “I wish 
sincerely we had a little more time for deliberation here ; 
that we were not so hurried ; that, in short, we had leisure 
to examine this project more fully, and at length.” 

“My dear Mr. Stocmar,” said she, blandly, looking up 
from the embroidery that she had just resumed, “life is not 
a very fascinating thing, taken at its best; but what a 
dreary affair it would be if one were to stop every instant 
and canvass every possible or impossible eventuality of 
the morrow. Do what we will, how plain is it that we can 
prejudge nothing, foresee nothing I ” 

“ Reasonable precautions, madam, are surely permissible. 
I was just imagining to myself what my position would be if, 
when this young lady had developed great dramatic ability 
and every requirement for theatrical success, some relative 
— some fiftieth cousin if you like, but some one with claim 
of kindred — should step forward and demand her. What 
becomes of all my rights in such a case ? ” 


314 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Let me put another issue, sir. Let me suppose some- 
body arriving at Lover or Folkestone, calling himself 
Charles Stuart, and averring that, as the legitimate descend- 
ant of that House, he was the rightful King of England. 
Do you really believe that her Majesty would immediately 
place Windsor at his disposal; or don’t you sincerely sup- 
pose that the complicated question would be solved by the 
nearest policeman?” 

“But she might marry, madam? ” 

“With her guardian’s consent, of course,” said she, with 
a demure coquetry of look and manner. “I trust she has 
been too well brought up, Mr. Stocmar, to make any risk of 
disobedience possible.” 

“Yes, yes,” muttered he, half impatiently, “it’s all very 
well to talk of guardians’ consent ; but so long as she can 
say, ‘ How did you become my guardian? What authority 
made you such? When, where, and by whom con- 
ferred ? ’ — ” 

“My dear Mr. Stocmar, your ingenuity has conjured up 
an Equity lawyer instead of an artless girl not sixteen 
years of age! Do, pray, explain to me how, with a mind 
so prone to anticipate difficulties, and so rife to coin objec- 
tions, — how, in the name of all that is wonderful, do you 
ever get through the immense mass of complicated affairs 
your theatrical life must present? If, before you engage a 
prima donna, you are obliged to trace her parentage through 
three generations back, to scrutinize her baptismal registry 
and her mother’s marriage certificate, all I can say is that 
a prime minister’s duties must be light holiday work com- 
pared with the cares of your lot.” 

“My investigations are not carried exactly so far as you 
have depicted them,” said he, good-humoredly; “but, 
surely, I ’m not too exacting if I say I should like some 
guarantee.” 

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Stocmar,” said she, interrupt- 
ing him with a laugh, “but may I ask if you are married? ” 

“No, madam. I am a bachelor.” 

“You probably intend, however, at some future time to 
change your state. I ’m certain you don’t mean to pass 
all your life in the egotism of celibacy.” 


IN THE TOILS. 


315 


“Possibly not, madam. I will not say that I am beyond 
the age of being fascinated or being foolish.” 

“Just what I mean, sir. Well, surely, in such a contin- 
gency, you ’d not require the lady to give you what you 
have just called a guarantee that she 'd not run away from 
you?” 

“My trust in her would be that guarantee, madam.” 

“Extend the same benevolent sentiment to me, sir. Trust 
me. I ask for no more.” And she said this with a witch- 
ery of look and manner that made Mr. Stocmar feel very 
happy and very miserable, twice over, within the space 
of a single minute. 

Poor Mr. Stocmar, what has become of all your caution, 
all your craft, and all the counsels so lately given you? 
Where are they now? Where is that armor of distrust in 
which you were to resist the barbed arrow of the enchan- 
tress ? Trust her ! It was not to be thought of, and yet it 
was exactly the very thing to be done, in spite of all 
thought and in defiance of all reason. 

And so the “Stocmar ” three-decker struck her flag, and 
the ensign of the fast frigate floated from her masthead ! 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


A DRIVE ROUND THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 

“Here’s another note for you, Stocmar,” said Paten, half 
peevishly, as they both sat at breakfast at the Hotel d’ltalie, 
and the waiter entered with a letter. “ That ’s the third from 
her this morning.” 

“ The second, — only the second, on honor,” said he, break- 
ing the seal, and running his eye over the contents. “ It 
seems she cannot see me to-day. The Heathcote family are 
all in grief and confusion ; some smash in America has in- 
volved them in heavy loss. Trover, you may remember, was 
in a fright about it last night. She’ll meet me, however, 
at the masked ball to-night, where we can confer together. 
She ’s to steal out unperceived, and I ’m to recognize her by 
a yellow domino with a little tricolored cross on the sleeve. 
Don’t be jealous, Ludlow, though it does look suspicious.” 

“Jealous! I should think not,” said the other, insolently. 

“ Come, come, you ’ll not pretend to say she is n’t worth 
it, Ludlow, nor you ’ll not affect to be indifferent to her.” 

‘ ‘ I wish to Heaven I was indifferent to her ; next to 
having never met her, it would be the best thing I know of,” 
said he, rising, and walking the room with hurried steps. 
“ I tell you, Stocmar, if ever there was an evil destiny, I 
believe that woman to be mine. I don’t think I love her, I 
cannot say to my own heart that I do, and yet there she is, 
mistress of my fate, to make me or mar me, just as she 
pleases.” 

“Which means, simply, that you are madly in love with 
her,” said Stocmar. 

“ No such thing ; I ’d do far more to injure than to serve 
her this minute. If I never closed my eyes last night, it was 


A DKIVE ROUND THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 317 


plotting how to overreach her, — how I should wreck her 
whole fortune in life, and leave her as destitute as I am 
myself.” 

“The sentiment is certainly amiable,” said Stocmar, 
smiling. 

“ I make no pretence to generosity about her,” said Paten, 
sternly; “nor is it between men like you and myself fine 
sentiments are bandied.” 

‘ ‘ Fine sentiments are one thing, master, an unreasonable 
antipathy is another,” said Stocmar. “And it would cer- 
tainly be too hard if we were to pursue with our hatred every 
woman that could not love us.” 

“ She did love me once, — at least, she said so,” broke in 
Paten. 

“Be grateful, therefore, for the past. I know 7’d be 
very much her debtor for any show of present tenderness, 
and give it under my hand never to bear the slightest malice 
whenever it pleased her to change her mind.” 

“By Heaven! Stocmar,” cried Paten, passionately, “I 
begin to believe you have been playing me false all this time, 
telling her all about me, and only thinking of how to advance 
your own interests with her.” 

“ You wrong me egregiously, then,” said Stocmar, calmly. 
“ I am ready to pledge you my word of honor that I never 
uttered your name, nor made a single allusion to you in any 
way. Will that satisfy you? ” 

“ It ought,” muttered he, gloomily; “ but suspicions and 
distrusts spring up in a mind like mine just as weeds do in a 
rank soil. Don’t be angry with me, old fellow.” 

“I’m not angry with you, Ludlow, except in so far as you 
wrong yourself. Why, my dear boy, the pursuit of a foolish 
spite is like going after a bad debt. All the mischief you 
could possibly wish this poor woman could never repay 
your 

‘ ‘ How can you know that without feeling as I feel ? ” 
retorted he, bitterly. “ If I were to show you her letters,” 
began he ; and then, as if ashamed of his ignoble menace, 
he stopped and was silent. 

“ Why not think seriously of this heiress she speaks of? 
I saw her yesterday as she came back from riding; her 


318 


ONE OF TUEM. 


carriage was awaiting her at the Piazza del Popolo, and 
there was actually a little crowd gathered to see her alight.” 

“ Is she so handsome, then? ” asked he, half listlessly. 

“ She is beautiful ; I doubt if I ever saw as lovely a face 
or as graceful a figure.” 

‘‘ I 'll wager my head on 't. Loo is handsomer ; I 'll engage 
to thrust my hand into the fire if Loo's foot is not infinitely 
more beautiful.” 

“ She has a wonderfully handsome foot, indeed,” muttered 
Stocmar. 

“ And so you have seen it,” said Paten, sarcastically. “ I 
wish you 'd be frank with me, and say how far the flirtation 
went between you.” 

“ Not half so far as I wished it, my boy. That's all the 
satisfaction you ’ll get from me.” 

This was said with a certain irritation of manner that for 
a while imposed silence upon each. 

“ Have you got a cheroot?” asked Paten, after a while; 
and the other flung his cigar-case across the table without 
speaking. 

“ I ordered that fellow in Geneva to send me two thou- 
sand,” said Paten, laughing ; “ but I begin to suspect he had 
exactly as many reasons for not executing the order.” 

“ Marry that girl, Ludlow, and you 'll get your 'bacco, I 
promise you,” said Stocmar, gayly. 

“ That’s all easy talking, my good fellow, but these things 
require time, opportunity, and pursuit. Now, who 's to in- 
sure me that they 'd not find out all about me in the mean 
while ? A woman does n't marry a man with as little solici- 
tation as she waltzes with him, and people in real life don't 
contract matrimony as they do in the third act of a comic 
opera.” 

‘ ‘ Faith, as regards obstacles, I back the stage to have the 
worst of it,” broke in Stocmar. “But whose cab is this in 
such tremendous haste, — Trover's ? And coming up here 
too? What's in the wind now?” 

He had but finished these words when Trover rushed into 
the room, his face pale as death, and his lips colorless. 

“ What 's up ? — what 's the matter, man ? ” cried Stocmar. 

“Ruin's the matter — a general smash in America — all 


A DRIVE ROUND THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 319 


securities discredited — bills dishonored — and universal 
failure.” 

“ So much the worse for the Yankees,” said Paten, light- 
ing his cigar coolly. 

A look of anger and insufferable contempt was all Trover’s 
reply. 

“ Are you deep with them? ” asked Stocmar, in a whisper 
to the banker. 

“Over head and ears,” muttered the other; “we have 
been discounting their paper freely all through the winter, 
till our drawers are choke-full of their acceptances, not one 
of which would now realize a dollar.” 

“How did the news come? Are you sure of its being 
authentic ? ” 

“ Too sure; it came in a despatch to Mrs. Morris from 
London. All the investments she has been making lately 
for the Heathcotes are clean swept away ; a matter of sixty 
thousand pounds not worth as many penny-pieces.” 

“ The fortune of Miss Leslie?” asked Stocmar. 

“Yes; she can stand it, I fancy, but it’s a heavy blow 
too.” 

“ Has she heard the news yet?” 

“ No, nor Sir William either. The widow cautioned me 
strictly not to say a word about it. Of course, it will be all 
over the city in an hour or so, from other sources.” 

“ What do you mean to do, then?” 

“ Twist is trying to convert some of our paper into cash, 
at a heavy sacrifice. If he succeed, we can stand it ; if not, 
we must bolt to-night.” He paused for a few seconds, and 
then, in a lower whisper, said, “ Is n’t §he game, that widow? 
What do you think she said? ‘ This is mere panic. Trover,’ 
said she ; ‘ it ’s a Yankee roguery, and nothing more. If I 
could command a hundred thousand pounds this minute, I ’d 
invest every shilling of it in their paper ; and if May Leslie 
will let me, you ’ll see whether I ’ll be true to my word.’ ” 

“It’s easy enough to play a bold game on one’s neigh- 
bor’s money,” said Stocmar. 

“ She’d have the same pluck if it were her own, or I mis- 
take her much. Has he got any disposable cash?” whis- 
pered Trover, with a jerk of his thumb towards Paten. 


320 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ Not a sixpence in the world.” 

“What a situation!” said Trover, in a whisper, trem- 
bling with agitation. “Oh, there’s Heathcote’s brougham, 
— stopping here too ! See ! that ’s Mrs. Morris, giving some 
directions to the servant. She wants to see you, I’m sure.” 

Stocmar, making a sign to Trover to keep Paten in con- 
versation, hurried from the room just in time to meet the 
footman in the corridor. It was, as the banker supposed, 
a request that Mr. Stocmar would favor her with “ one 
minute ” at the door. She lifted her veil as he came up to 
the window of the carriage, and in her sweetest of accents 
said, — 

“ Can you take a turn with me? I want to speak to you.” 

He was speedily beside, her ; and away they drove, the 
coachman having received orders to make one turn of the 
Cascine, and back to the hotel. 

“I’m deep in affairs this morning, my dear Mr. Stocmar,” 
began she, as they drove rapidly along, “and have to be- 
speak your kind aid to befriend me. You have not seen 
Clara yet, and consequently are unable to pronounce upon 
her merits in any way, but events have occurred which 
require that she should be immediately provided for. Could 
you, by any possibility, assume the charge of her to-day, — 
this evening? I mean, so far as to convey her to Milan, and 
place her at the Conservatoire.” 

‘ ‘ But, my dear Mrs. Morris, there is an arrangement to be 
fulfilled, — there is a preliminary to be settled. No young 
ladies are received there without certain stipulations made 
and complied with.” 

“ All have been provided for ; she is admitted as the ward 
of Mr. Stocmar. Here is the document, and here the amount 
of the first half-year’s pension.” 

“ ‘ Clara Stocmar,’ ” read he. “ Well, I must say, madam, 
this is going rather far.” 

“You shall not be ashamed of your niece, sir,” said she, 
“ or else I mistake greatly your feeling for her aunt.” Oh 1 
Mr. Stocmar, how is it that all your behind-scene experi- 
ences have not hardened you against such a glance as that 
which has now set your heart a-beating within that embroi- 
dered waistcoat? “My dear Mr. Stocmar,” she went on. 


A DRIVE ROUND THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 321 


“ if the world has taught me any lesson, it has been to know, 
by an instinct that never deceives, the men I can dare to 
confide in. You had not crossed the room, where I received 
you, till I felt you to be such. I said to myself, ‘ Here is 
one who will not want to make love to me, who will not 
break out into wild rhapsodies of passion and professions, 
but who will at once understand that I need his friendship 
and his counsel, and that’’’ — here she dropped her eyes, 
and, gently suffering her hand to touch his, muttered, “ and 
that I can estimate their value, and try to repay it.” Poor 
Mr. Stocmar, your breathing is more fiurried than ever. So 
agitated, indeed, was he, that it was some seconds ere he be- 
came conscious that she had entered upon a narrative for 
which she had bespoken his attention, and whose details he 
only caught some time after their commencement. “ You 
thus perceive, sir,” said she, “ the great importance of time 
in this affair. Sir William is confined to his room with gout, 
in considerable pain, and, naturally enough, far too much 
engrossed by his sufferings to think of anything else ; Miss 
Leslie has her own preoccupations, and, though the loss of 
a large sum of money may not much increase them, the 
disaster will certainly serve to engage her attention. This 
is precisely the moment to get rid of Clara with the least 
possible eclat ; we shall all be in such a state of confusion 
-that her departure will scarcely be felt or noticed.” 

“Upon my life, madam,”, said Stocmar, drawing a long 
breath, “ you frighten — you actually terrify me ; you go to 
every object you have in view with such energy and decision, 
noting every chance circumstance which favors you, so 
nicely balancing motives, and weighing probabilities with 
such cool accuracy, that I feel how we men are mere 
puppets, to be moved about the board at your will.” 

“ And for what is the game played, my dear Mr. Stoc- 
mar? ” said she, with a seductive smile. “Is it not to win 
some one amongst you ? ” 

“Oh, by Jove! if a man could only flatter himself that 
•be held the right number, the lottery would be glorious 
sport.” 

“ If the prize be such as you say, is not the chance worth 
^something?” And these words were uttered with a down- 

21 


822 


ONE OF THEM. 


cast shyness that made every syllable of them thrill within 
him. 

“ What does she mean?’* thought he, in all the flurry of 
his excited feelings. “ Is she merely playing me off to make 
use of me, or am I to believe that she really will — after all ? 
Though I confess to thirty-eight — I am actually no more 
than forty- two — only a little bald and gray in the whiskers, 
and — confound it, she guesses what is passing through my 
head. — What are you laughing at ; do, 1 beg of you, tell me 
truly what it is? ” cried he, aloud. 

“I was thinking of an absurd analogy, Mr. Stocmar; 
some African traveller — I’m not sure that it is not Mungo 
Park — mentions that he used to estimate the depth of the 
rivers by throwing stones into them, and watching the time 
it took for the air bubbles to come up to the surface. Now, 
I was just fancying what a measure of human motives might 
be fashioned out of the interval of silence which intervenes 
between some new impression and the acknowledgment of it. 
You were gravely and seriously asking yourself, ‘ Am I in 
love with this woman ? ’ ” 

“ I was,” said he, solemnly. 

“ I knew it,” said she, laughing. “ I knew it.” 

“And what was the answer — do you know that too?*' 
asked he, almost sternly. 

“Yes, the answer was somewhat in this shape: ‘I don’t 
half trust her ! ’ ” 

They both laughed very joyously after this, Stocmar break- 
ing out into a second laugh after he had finished. 

“Oh! Mr. Stocmar,” cried she, suddenly, and with an 
impetuosity that seemed beyond her control, “ I have no 
need of a declaration on your part. I can read what passes 
in your heart by what I feel in my own. We have each of 
us seen that much of life to make us afraid of rash ventures. 
We want better security for our investments in affection than 
we used to do once on a time, not alone because we have 
seen so many failures, but that our disposable capital is less. 
Come now, be frank, and tell me one thing, — not that I have 
a doubt about it, but that I ’d like to hear it from yourself, — 
confess honestly, you know who I am and all about me ? ” 

So sudden and so unexpected was this bold speech, that 


A DRIVE ROUND THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 823 

Stocmar, well versed as he was in situations of difficulty, 
felt actually overcome with confusion ; he tried to say some- 
thing, but could only make an indistinct muttering, and was 
silent. 

“ It required no skill on my part to see it,” continued she. 
“Men so well acquainted with life as you, such consummate 
tacticians in the world’s strategies, only make one blunder , 
but you all of you make that : you always exhibit in some 
nameless little trait of manner a sense of ascendancy over the 
woman you deem in your power. You can’t help it. It ’s 
not through tyranny, it ’s not through insolence, — it is just 
the man-nature in you, that ’s all.” 

“ If you read us truly, you read us harshly too,” began he. 
But she cut him short, by asking, — 

“ And who was your informant? Paten, was n’t it? ” 

“ Yes, I heard everything from him,” said he, calmly. 

“ And my letters — have you read them too?” 

“No. I have heard him allude to them, but never saw 
them.” 

“ So, then, there is some baseness yet left for him,” said 
she, bitterly, “ and I’m almost sorry for it. Do you know, 
or will you believe me when I tell it, that, after a life with 
many reverses and much to grieve over, my heaviest heart- 
sore was ever having known that man ? ” 

“ You surely cared for him once? ” 

“ Never, never ! ” burst she out, violently. “ When we met 
first, I was the daily victim of more cruelties than might have 
crushed a dozen women. His pity was very precious, and I 
felt towards him as that poor prisoner we read of felt towards 
the toad that shared his dungeon. It was one living thing to 
sympathize with, and I could not afford to relinquish it, and 
so I wrote all manner of things, — love-letters I suppose the 
world would call them, though some one or two might per- 
haps decipher the mystery of their meaning, and see in them 
all the misery of a hopeless woman’s heart. No matter, such 
as they were, they were confessions wrung out by the rack, 
and need not have been recorded as calm avowals, still less 
treasured up as bonds to be paid off.” 

“ But if you made him love you — ” 

“ Made him love me ! ” repeated she, with insolent scorn ; 


824 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ how well you kuow your friend ! But even he never pre- 
tended that. My letters in his eyes were 1 O U’s, and no 
more. Like many a one in distress, I promised any rate of 
interest demanded of me ; he saw my misery, and dictated 
the terms.’’ 

“ I think you judge him hardly.” 

“ Perhaps so. It is little matter now. The question is, 
will he give up these letters, and on what conditions ? ” 

“ I think if you were yourself to see him — ” 

“ 7 to see him ! Never, never ! There is no consequence 
I would not accept rather than meet that man again.” 

“ Are you not taking counsel from passion rather than 
your real interest here ? ” 

“I may be; but passion is the stronger. What sum in 
money do you suppose he would take ? I can command nigh 
seven hundred pounds. Would that suffice? ” 

“ I cannot even guess this point ; but if you like to confide 
to me the negotiation — ” 

“Is it not in your hands already?” asked she, bluntly. 
“ Have you not come out here for the purpose? ” 

“ No, on my honor,” said he, solemnly ; “ for once you 
are mistaken.” 

“ I am sorry for it. I had hoped for a speedier settle- 
ment,” said she, coldly. “And so, you really came abroad 
in search of theatrical novelties. Oh dear ! ” sighed she, 
“Trover said so; and it is so confounding when any one 
tells the truth ! ” 

She paused, and there was a silence of some minutes. At 
last she said : ‘ ‘ Clara disposed of, and these letters in my 
possession, and I should feel like one saved from shipwreck. 
Do you think you could promise me these, Mr. Stocmar?” 

“ I see no reason to despair of either,” said he ; “ for the 
first I have pledged myself, and I will certainly do all in my 
power for the second.” 

“You must, then, make me another promise: you must 
come back here for my wedding.” 

“ Your wedding ! ” 

“ Yes. I am going to marry Sir William Heathcote,” said 
she, sighing heavily. “ His debts prevent him ever return- 
ing to England, and consequently I run the less risk of 


A DRIVE ROUND THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 325 


being inquired after and traced, than if I were to go back 
to that dear land of perquisition and persecution.” 

“ The world is very small nowadays,” muttered Stocmar. 
“ People are known everywhere.” 

“ So they are,” said she, quickly. “ But on the Continent, 
or at least in Italy, the detectives only give you a nod of 
recognition; they do not follow you with a warrant, as 
they do at home. This makes a great difference, sir.” 

“And can you really resign yourself, at your age and 
with your attractions, to retire from the world ?” said he, 
with a deep earnestness of manner. 



“ Not without regret, Mr. Stocmar. I will not pretend it. 
But remember, what would life be if passed upon a tight- 
rope, always poising, always balancing, never a moment 
without the dread of a fall, never a second without the con- 
sciousness that the slightest divergence might be death ! 
Would you counsel me to face an existence like this? Re- 
member, besides, that in the world we live in, they who 
wreck character are not the calumnious, they are simply the 
idle, — the men and women who, having nothing to do, do 
mischief without knowing. One remarks that nobody in the 
room knew that woman with the blue wreath in her hair, and 


326 


ONE OF THEM. 


at once she becomes an object of interest. Some of the men 
have admired her ; the women have discovered innumerable 
blemishes in her appearance. She becomes at once a topic 
and a theme, — where she goes, what she wears, whom she 
speaks to, are all reported, till at length the man who can 
give the clew to the mystery and ‘ tell all about her * is a 
public benefactor. At what dinner-party is he not the guest? 
— what opera-box is denied him ? — where is the coterie so 
select at which his presence is not welcome so long as the 
subject is a fresh one? They tell us that society, like the 
Church, must have its ‘ autos da fe,’ but one would rather 
not be the victim.” 

Stocmar gave a sigh that seemed to imply assent. 

“ And so,” said she, with a deeper sigh, “ I take a hus- 
band, as others take the veil, for the sake of oblivion.” 

While she said this, Stocmar’s eyes were turned towards 
her with a most unfeigned admiration. He felt as he might 
have done if a great actress were to relinquish the stage in 
the climax of her greatest success. He wished he could 
summon courage to say, “You shall not do so; there are 
grander triumphs before you, and we will share them to- 
gether ; ” but somehow his “ nerve ” failed him, and he could 
not utter the words. 

“ I see what is passing in your heart, Mr. Stocmar,” said 
she, plaintively. “ You are sorry for me, — you pity me, — 
but you can’t help it. Well, that sympathy will be my com- 
fort many a day hence, when you will have utterly forgotten 
me. I will think over it and treasure it when many a long 
mile will separate us.” 

Mr. Stocmar went through another paroxysm of tempta- 
tion. At last he said, “ I hope this Sir William Heathcote 
is worthy of you, — I do trust he loves you.” 

She held her handkerchief over her face, but her shoulders 
moved convulsively for some seconds. Was it grief or 
laughter? Stocmar evidently thought the former, for he 
quickly said, “I have been very bold, — very indiscreet. 
Pray forgive me.” 

“ Yes, yes, I do forgive you,” said she, hurriedly, and with 
her head averted. “ It was my fault, not yours. But here 
we are at your hotel, and I have got so much to say to you ! 


A DRIVE ROUND THE CASCINE AT FLORENCE. 327 

Remember we meet to-night at the ball. You will know me 
by the cross of ribbon on my sleeve, which, if you come in 
domino, you will take off and pin upon your own ; this will 
be the signal between us.^^ 

“ I will not forget it,” said he, kissing her hand with an 
air of devotion as he said “ Good-bye ! ” 

‘‘ I saw her 1 ” whispered a voice in his ear. He turned ; 
and Paten, whose face was deeply muffled in a coarse woollen 
wrapper, was beside him. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 


SIR WILLIAM IN THE GOUT. 

Sir William Heathcote in his dressing-room, wrapped up 
with rugs, and his foot on a stool, looked as little like a 
bridegroom as need be. He was suffering severely from 
gout, and in all the irritable excitement of that painful 
malady. 

A mass of unopened letters lay on the table beside him, 
littered as it was with physic bottles, pill-boxes, and a small 
hand-bell. On the carpet around him lay the newspapers 
and reviews, newly arrived, but all indignantly thrown aside, 
uncared for by one too deeply engaged in his sufferings to 
waste a thought upon the interests of the world. 

“Not come in yet, Fenton?” cried he, angrily, to his 
servant. “I’m certain you ’re mistaken ; go and inquire of 
her maid.” 

“I have just asked mamselle, sir, and she says her mis- 
tress is still out driving.” 

“ Give me my colchicum ; no, the other bottle, — that 
small phial. But you can’t drop them. There, leave it 
down, and send Miss Leslie here.” 

“She is at the Gallery, sir.” 

“Of course she is,” muttered he, angrily, below his 
breath; “gadding, like the rest. Is there no one can meas- 
ure out my medicine? Where ’s Miss Clara? ” 

“She’s in the drawing-room, sir.” 

“Send her here; beg her to do me the favor,” cried he, 
subduing the irritation of his manner, as he wiped his fore- 
head, and tried to seem calm and collected. 

“Did you want me, grandpapa?” said the young girl, 
entering, and addressing him by the title she had one day 


SIR WILLIAM IN THE GOUT. 329 

given him in sportiveness, and which he liked to be called 
by. 

“Yes,” said he, roughly, for his pain was again upon him. 
“I wanted any one that would be humane enough to sit 
with me for a while. Are you steady enough of hand to 
drop that medicine for me, child?” 

“I think so,” said she, smiling gently. 

“But you must be certain, or it won’t do. I ’d not like 
to be poisoned, my good girl. Five-and-twenty drops, — 
no more.” 

“I ’ll count them, sir, and be most careful,” said she,, 
rising, and taking the bottle. 

“Egad, I scarcely fancy trusting you,” said he, half 
peevishly. “A giddy thing like you would feel little 
remorse at having overdone the dose.” 

“Oh, grandpapa! ” 

“Oh, of course you ’d not do it purposely. But why am I 
left to such chances? Why is n’t your mother here? There 
are all my letters, besides, unread ; and they cannot, if need 
were, be answered by this post.” 

“She said that she ’d be obliged to call at the bank this 
morning, sir, and was very likely to be delayed there for a 
considerable time.” 

“ I ’m sure I cannot guess why. It is Trover and Twist ’s 
duty to attend to her at once. They would not presume to 
detain her. Oh! here comes the pain again! Why do you 
irritate me, child, by these remarks? Can’t you see how 
they distress me? ” 

“Dear grandpapa, how sorry I am! Let me give you 
these drops.” 

“Not for the world! No, no, I ’ll not be accessary to my 
own death. If it come, it shall come at its own time. 
There, I am not angry with you, child; don’t get so pale; 
sit down here, beside me. What ’s all this story about your 
guardian? I heard it so confusedly last night, during an 
attack of pain, I can make nothing of it.” 

“I scarcely know more of it myself, sir. All I do know 
is that he has come out from England to take me away with 
him, and place me, mamma says, at some Pensionnat.” 

“No, no; this mustn’t be, — this is impossible! You 


330 


ONE OF THEM. 


belong to us, dear Clara. ITl not permit it. Your poor 
mamma would be heart-broken to lose you.” 

Clara turned away, and wiped two large tears from her 
eyes ; her lips trembled so that she could not utter a word. 

“No, no,” continued he; “a guardian is all very well, but 
a mother’s rights are very different, — and such a mother as 
yours, Clara! Oh! by Jove! that was a pang! Give me 
that toast-and-water, child ! ” 

It was with a rude impatience he seized the glass from 
her hand, and drank off the contents. “This pain makes 
one a downright savage, my poor Clara,” said he, patting 
her cheek, “but old grandpapa will not be such a bear 
to-morrow.” 

“ To-morrow, when I ’m gone ! ” muttered she, half 
dreamily. 

“And his name? What is it?” 

“Stocmar, sir.” 

“Stocmar, — Stocmar? never heard of a Stocmar, except 
that theatrical fellow near St. James’s. Have you seen 
him, child?” 

“No, sir. I was out walking when he called.” 

“Well, do the same to-morrow,” cried he, peevishly, for 
another twitch of gout had just crossed him. “It ’s always 
so,” muttered he; “every annoyance of life lies in wait for 
the moment a man is laid up with gout, just as if the con- 
founded malady were not torture enough by itself. There ’s 
Charley going out as a volunteer to India, for what or why 
no one can say. If there had been some insurmountable 
obstacle to his marriage with May, he ’d have remained to 
overcome it; but because he loves her, and that she likes 
him — By Jove, that was a pang! ” cried he, wiping his 
forehead, after a terrible moment of pain. “Isn’t it so, 
Clara?” he resumed. “ Yow know better than any of us 
that May never cared for that tutor fellow, — I forget his 
name; besides, that’s an old stor}" now, — a matter of long 
ago. But he will go. He says that even a rash resolve at 
six-and-twenty is far better than a vain and hopeless regret 
at six-and-forty; but I say, let him marry May Leslie, and 
he need neither incur one nor the other. And so this guar- 
dian’s name is Harris?” 


SIR WILLIAM IN THE GOUT. 


331 


“No, graodpapa, Stocmar.” 

“Oh, to be sure. I was confounding him with another of 
those stage people. And what business has he to carry you 
off without your mother’s consent?” 

“Mamma does consent, sir. She says that my education 
has been so much neglected that it is actually indispensable 
I should study now.” 

“Education neglected! what nonsense! Do they want 
to make you a Professor of the Sorbonne? Why, child, 
without any wish to make you vain, you know ten times as 
much as half the collegiate fellows one meets, what with 
languages, and music, and drawing, and all that- school 
learning of mamma’s own teaching. And then that memory 
of yours, Clara; why, you seem to me to forget nothing.” 

“I remember but too well,” muttered she to herself. 

“What was it you said, child? I did not catch it,” said 
he. And then, not waiting for her reply, he went on: “And 
all your high spirits, my little Clara, where are they gone? 
And your odd rhymes, that used to amuse me so? You 
never make them now.” 

“They do not cross my mind as they used to do,” said 
she, pensively. 

“You vote them childish, perhaps, like your dolls?” said 
he, smiling. 

“No, not that. I wish with all my heart I could go back 
to the dolls and the nurserj^ songs. I wish I could live all 
in the hour before me, making little dramas of life, with 
some delightful part for myself in each, and only to be 
aroused from the illusion to join a real world just as 
enjoyable.” 

“But surely, child, you have not reached the land of re- 
grets already?” said he, fondly drawing her towards him 
with his arm. 

She turned her head away, and drew her hand across her 
eyes. 

“It is very early to begin with sorrow, my dear child,” 
said he, affectionately. “Let me hope that it’s only an 
April cloud, with the silver lining already peeping through.” 

A faint sob broke from her, but she did not speak. 

“I ’d ask to be your confidant only in thinking I could 


332 


ONE OF THEM. 


serve you, dearest Clara. Old men like myself get to know 
a good deal of life without any study of it.’^ 

She made a slight effort to disengage herself from his arm, 
but he held her fast; and, after a moment, she leaned her 
head upon his shoulder and burst out crying. 

At this critical instant the door opened, and Mrs. Morris 
entered. Scarcely inside the room, she stood like one 
spell-bound, unable to move or speak ; her features, flushed 
by exercise, became pale as death, her lips actually livid. 
‘‘Am I indiscreet?” asked she, in a voice scarcely other 
than a hiss of passion. “Do 1 interrupt a confidence. Sir 
William? ” 

“I am not sure that you do,” said he, good-humoredly. 
“Though I was pressing Clara to accept me as a counsellor, 
I’m not quite certain I was about to succeed.” 

“Indeed!” said Mrs. Morris, sarcastically. “Jfy theory 
about young ladies excludes secrets altogether. It assumes 
them to be candid and open-hearted. They who walk 
openly and on the high-road want little guidance beyond 
the dictates of a right purpose. Go to your room, Clara, 
and I T1 be with you presently.” These latter words were 
spoken in perfect calm, and obeyed at once. Mrs. Morris 
was now alone with Sir William. 

The Baronet felt ill at ease. With a perfect conscious- 
ness of honorable motives, there is an awkwardness in situa- 
tions which seem to require explanation, if not excuse, and 
he waited, in a sort of fidgety impatience, that she should 
say something that might enable him to state what had 
occurred between Clara and himself. 

“I hope you are better than when I left you this morning ? ” 
said she, as she untied her bonnet and seated herself in front 
of him. 

“Scarcely so; these pains recur at every instant, and my 
nerves are shattered with irritability.” 

“I’m sorry for it, for you have need of all your firmness; 
bad news has come from America.” 

“Bad news? What sort of bad news? Is there a 
war — ” 

“A war!” said she, contemptuously. “I wish it was a 
war! It’s far worse than war. It’s general bankruptcy. 


SIR WILLIAM IN THE GOUT. 


333 


All the great houses breaking, and securities utterly 
Talueless.’’ 

“Well, bad enough, no doubt, but it does not immediately 
<5oncern us” said he, quickly. 

“Not concern us! Why, what have we been doing these 
last months but buying into this share-market? Have we 
not invested largely in Kansas stock, in Iroquois and in 
Texan bonds?” 

Whether he had not originally understood the transfers in 
which he had borne his part, or whether the pain of his seiz- 
ure had effaced all memory of the events, he now sat bewil- 
dered and astounded, like one suddenly aroused from a 
deep sleep, to listen to disastrous news. 

“But I don’t understand,” cried he. “I cannot see how 
all this has been done. I heard you and Trover discussing 
it together, and I saw innumerable colored plans of rail- 
roads that were to be, and cities that must be, and I remem- 
ber something about lands to be purchased for two dollars 
and re-sold for two hundred.” 

“And, by all that, you have confessed to know everything 
that I did,” said she, firmly. “It was explained to you 
that, instead of muddling away upon mortgage at home, 
some thirty or even forty per cent might be realized in the 
States. I showed you the road by risking whatever little 
fortune I possessed, and you followed. Now we have each 
of us lost our money, and there’s the whole story.” 

“But it ’s May’s money I ’ve lost! ” cried he, with a voice 
of anguish. 

“I don’t suppose it matters much to whom it belonged 
once,” said she, dryly. “The gentlemen into whose hands 
it falls will scarcely burden themselves to ask whence it 
oame.” 

“But I had no right to gamble May Leslie’s fortune!” 
burst he in. 

“We have no time for the ethical part of the question at 
present,” said she, calmly. “Our concern is with how we 
are to save the most we can. I have just seen the names of 
two houses at New York, which, if aided in time, will be 
able to stand the torrent, and eventually pay everything. 
To save their credit here will require about eighteen thou- 


334 


ONE OF THEM. 


sand pounds. It is our interest — our only hope, indeed — 
to rescue ^hem. Could you induce May to take this step ? ** 

“Induce May to peril another large portion of her for- 
tune ! ” cried he, in horror and astonishment. 

“Induce her to arrest what might proceed to her ruin,” 
whispered she, in a low, distinct voice. “If these American 
securities are forfeited, there will be no money forthcoming 
to meet the calls for the Spanish railroads, no resources to 
pay the deposit on the concessions in Naples. You seem to 
forget how deep our present engagements are. We shall 
need above thirty thousand pounds by the 1st of March, — 
fully as much more six weeks later.” 

The old man clasped his hands convulsively, and trembled 
from head to foot. 

“You know well how ignorant she is of all we have done, 
all we are doing,” said he, with deep emotion. 

“I know well that no one ever labored and worked for my 
benefit as I have toiled for he7's. My endeavor was to 
triple, quadruple her fortune, and if unforeseen casualties 
have arisen to thwart my plans, I am not deterred by such 
disasters. I wish I could say as much for you.** 

The ineffable insolence of her manner as she uttered this 
taunt, far from rousing the old man’s anger, seemed only 
to awe and subdue him. 

“Yes,” continued she, “I am only a woman, and, as a 
woman, debarred from all those resorts where information 
is rife and knowledge attainable ; but even working darkly, 
blindly, as I must, I have more reliance and courage than 
some men that I wot of! ” 

He seemed for a moment to struggle hard with himself to 
summon the spirit to reply to her; for an instant he raised 
his head haughtily, but as his eyes met hers they fell sud- 
denly, and he muttered in a half-broken voice, “I meant all 
for the best ! ” 

“Well,” cried she, after a brief pause, “it is no time for 
regrets, or recriminations either. It is surely neither your 
fault nor mine that the cotton crop is a failure, or that 
discounts are high in Broadway. When May comes in, you 
must explain to her what has happened, and ask her leave 
to sell out her Sardinian stock. It is a small sum, to be 


Sm WILLIAM IN THE GOUT. 


335 


sure, but it will give us a respite for a clay or two, and then 
w^e shall think of our next move.’’ 

She left the room as she said this, and anything more 
utterly hopeless than the old Baronet it would be difficult to 
imagine. Bewildered and almost stunned by the difficulties 
around him, a sort of vague sense of reliance upon her sus- 
tained him so long as she was there. No sooner, however, 
had she gone, than this support seemed withdrawn, and he 
sat, the very picture of dismay and discomfiture. 

The project by which the artful Mrs. Morris had originally 
seduced him into speculation was no other than to employ 
Miss Leslie’s fortune as the means of making advantageous 
purchases of land in the States, and of discounting at the 
high rate of interest so freely given in times of pressure 
in the cities of the Union. To suffer a considerable sum to 
lie unprofitably yielding three per cent at home, when it 
might render thirty by means of a little energy and a little 
skill, seemed actually absurd ; and not a day used to go over, 
in which she would not compute, from the recorded rates of 
the exchanges, the large gains that might have been realized, 
without, as she would say, “the shadow of a shade of risk.” 
Sir William had once gambled on ’Change and in railroad 
speculations the whole of. a considerable estate; and the old 
leaven of speculation still worked within him. If there be a 
spirit which no length of years can efface, no changes of 
time eradicate, it is the gamester’s reliance upon fortune. 
Estranged for a long period as he had lived from all the 
exciting incidents of enterprise, no sooner was the picture 
of gain once more displayed before him than he eagerly 
embraced it. 

“Ah! ” he would say to himself, “if I had but had the 
advantage of her clear head and shrewd power of calculation 
long ago, what a man I might be to-day! That woman’s 
wit of hers puts all mere men’s acuteness to the blush.” It 
is not necessary to say that the softest of blue eyes and the 
silkiest of brown hair did not detract very largely from the 
influences of her mental superiority; and Sir William was 
arrived at that precise lustre in which such fascinations 
obtain their most undisputed triumphs. 

Poets talk of youth as the impressionable age ; they rave 


S36 


ONE OF THEM. 


about its ardor, its impetuous, uncalculating generosity, and 
so forth ; but for an act of downright self-forgetting devo- 
tion, for that impulsive spirit that takes no counsel from 
calm reason, give us an elderly gentleman, — anything from 
sixty-four to fourscore. These are the really ardent and 
tender lovers, — easy victims, too, of all the wiles that beset 
them. 

Had any grave notary, or deep plotting man upon ’Change 
suggested to Sir William the project of employing his ward’s 
fortune with any view to his own profit, the chances are that 
the hint would have been rejected as an outrage, and the 
suggester insulted ; but the plan came from rosy lips, whis- 
pered by the softest of voices ; and even the arithmetic was 
jotted down by fingers so taper and so white that he lost 
sight of the multiples in his admiration of the calculator. 
His first experiences, besides, were all great successes. 
Kansas scrip went up to a fabulous premium. When he 
sold out his Salt * Lake Fives, he realized cent per cent. 
These led him on. That “ardor nummi ” which was not 
new in the days of the Latin poet, is as rife in our time as 
it was centuries ago. 

Let us also bear in mind that there is something very fasci- 
nating to a man of a naturally active temperament to be re- 
called, after years of inglorious leisure, to subjects of deep 
and stirring interest ; he likes the self-fiattery of being equal 
to such themes, that his judgment should be as sound, his 
memory as clear, and his apprehension as ready as it used 
to be. Proud man is the old fox-hunter that can charge his 
^‘quickset” at fourscore; but infinitely prouder the old 
country gentleman who, at the same age, fancies himself 
deep in all the mysteries of finance, and skilled in the crafty 
lore of the share-market. 

And, last of all, he was vexed and irritated by Charley’s 
desertion of him, and taunted by the tone in which the 
young man alluded to the widow and her infiuence in the 
family. To be taught caution, or to receive lessons in 
worldly craft from one very much our junior, is always a 
trial of temper; and so did everything conspire to make 
him an easy victim to her machinations. 

And May, — what of her? May signed her name when 


SIR WILLIAM IN THE GOUT. 


337 


and wherever she was told, concurred with everything, and, 
smiling, expressed her gratitude for all the trouble they were 
taking on her behalf. Her only impression throughout was 
that property was a great source of worry ; and what a for- 
tunate thing it was for her to have met with those who 
understood its interests, and could deal with its eventuali- 
ties ! Of her large fortune she actually knew nothing. Little 
jests would be bandied, at breakfast and dinner, about May 
being the owner of vast tracts in the far West, territories 
wide as principalities, with mines here and great forests 
there, and so on, and sportive allusions to her one day be- 
coming the queen of some far-away land beyond the sea. 
Save in such laughing guise as this she never approached the 
theme, nor cared for it. 

Between May and Clara a close friendship had grown up. 
Besides the tastes that united them, there was another and a 
very tender bond that linked their hearts together. They 
were confidantes. May told Clara that she really loved 
Charles Heathcote, and never knew it till they were sepa- 
rated. She owned that if his careless, half-indifferent way 
had piqued her, it was only after she had been taught to 
resent it. She had once even regarded it as the type of his 
manly, independent nature, which she now believed to be the 
true version of his character; and then there was a secret 
— a real young-lady secret — between them, fastest of all 
the bonds that ever bound such hearts together. 

May fancied or imagined that young Layton had gone 
away, trusting that time was to plead for him, and that 
absence was to appeal in his behalf. Perhaps he had said 
so ; perhaps he hoped it ; perhaps it was a mere dream of 
her own. Who knows these things ? In that same court of 
Cupid fancies are just as valid as affidavits, and the vaguest 
illusions quite as much evidence as testimony taken on oath. 

Now, amongst all the sorrows that a young lady loves best 
to weep over, there is not one whose ecstasy can compare 
with the affliction for the poor fellow who loves her to mad- 
ness, but whose affection she cannot return. It is a very 
strange and curious fact — and fact it is — that this same 
tie of a rejected devotion will occasionally exact sacrifices 
just as great as the most absorbing passion. . 

22 


338 


ONE OF THEM. 


To have gained a man’s heart, as it were, in spite of him, 

. — to have become the depositary of all his hopes, and yet 
not given him one scrap of a receipt for his whole invest- 
ment, — has a wonderful attraction for the female nature. 
It is the kind of debt of honor she can appreciate best of all, 
and, it must be owned, it is one she knows how to deal with 
in a noble and generous spirit. To the man so placed with 
regard to her she will observe an undying fidelity; she will 
defend him at any cost; she will uphold him at any sacrifice. 
Now, May not only confessed to Clara that Layton had 
made her the offer of his heart, but she told how heavily on 
her conscience lay the possible — if it were so much as 
possible — sin of having given him any encouragement. 

“You must write to the poor fellow for me, Clara. You 
must tell him from me — from myself, remember — that it 
would be only a cruelty to suffer him to cherish hope; that 
my self-accusings, painful enough now, would be tortures if 
I were to deceive him. I’m sure it is better, no matter 
what the anguish be, to deal thus honestly and fairly ; and 
you can add that his noble qualities will be ever dwelt on 
by me — indeed, you may say by both of us — with the very 
deepest interest, and that no higher happiness could be than 
to hear of his success in life.” 

May said this and much more to the same purpose. She 
professed to feel for him the most sincere friendship, faintly 
foreshadowing throughout that it was not the least demerit 
on his part his being fascinated by such attractions as hers, 
though they were, in reality, not meant to captivate him. 

I cannot exactly say how far Clara gave a faithful tran- 
script of her friend’s feelings, for I never saw but a part of 
the letter she wrote ; but certainly it is only fair to suppose, 
from its success, that it was all May could have desired. 

The epistle had followed Layton from an address he had 
given in Wales to Dublin, thence to the north of Ireland, 
and finally overtook him in Liverpool the night before he 
sailed for America. 

He answered it at once. He tendered all his gratitude for 
the kind thoughtfulness that had suggested the letter. He 
said that such an evidence of interest was inexpressibly dear 
to him at a moment when nothing around or about him was 


SIR WILLIAM IN THE GOUT. 


339 


of the cheeriest. He declared that, going to a far-away 
land, with an uncertain future before him, it was a great 
source of encouragement to him to feel that good wishes 
followed his steps; that he owned, in a spirit of honest 
loyalty, that few as were the months that had intervened, 
they were enough to convince him of the immense presump- 
tion of his proffer. “You will tell Miss Leslie,” wrote he, 
“that in the intoxication of all the happiness I lived in at 
the villa, I lost head as well as heart. It was such an at- 
mosphere of enjoyment as I had never breathed before, — may 
never breathe again. I could not stop to analyze what it 
was that imparted such ecstasy to my existence, and, natu- 
rally enough, tendered all my homage and all my devotion 
to one whose loveliness was so surpassing ! If I was ever 
unjust enough to accuse her of having encouraged my rash 
presumption, let me now entreat her pardon. I see and own 
my fault.” 

The letter was very long, but not always very coherent. 
There was about it a humility that smacked more of 
wounded pride than submissiveness, and occasionally a sort 
of shadowy protest that, while grateful for proffered friend- 
ship, he felt himself no subject for pity or compassion. To 
use the phrase of Quackinboss, to whom he read it, “it 
closed the account with that firm, and declared no more 
goods from that store.” 

But there was a loose slip of paper enclosed, very small, 
and with only a few lines written on it. It was to Clara 
herself. “And so you have kept the slip of jessamine I 
gave you on tliat day, — gave you so ungraciously too. 
Keep it still, dear Clara. Keep it in memory of one who, 
when he claims it of you, will ask you to recall that hour, 
and never again forget it ! ” 

This she did not show to May Leslie; and thus was there 
one secret which she treasured in her own heart, alone. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


A WARM DISCUSSION. 

“I KNEW it, — I could have sworn to it,” cried Paten, as 
he listened to Stocmar’s narrative of his drive with Mrs. 
Morris. “ She has just done with you as with fifty others. 
Of course you ’ll not believe that you can be the dupe, — 
she ’d not dare to throw her net for such a fish as you. Ay, 
and land you afterwards, high and dry, as she has done with 
scores of fellows as sharp as either of us.” 

Stocmar sipped his wine, half simpering at the passionate 
warmth of his companion, which, not without truth, he 
ascribed to a sense of jealousy. 

“ I know her well,” continued Paten, with heightened 
passion. “I have reason to know her well; and I don’t 
believe that this moment you could match her for falsehood 
in all Europe. There is not a solitary spot in her heart 
without a snare in it.” 

“ Strange confession this, from a lover,” said Stocmar, 
smiling. 

“If you call a lover one that would peril his own life to 
bring shame and disgrace on hers, I am siich a man.” 

“It is not more than a week ago you told me, in all seri- 
ousness, that you would marry her, if she ’d have you.” 

“ And I say it again, here and now ; and I say more, that 
if I had the legal right over her that marriage would give 
me, I ’d make her rue the day she outraged Ludlow Paten.” 

“ It was Paul Hunt that she slighted, man,” said Stocmar, 
half sneeringly. “ You forget that.” 

“ Is this meant for a threat, Stocmar? ” 

“ Don’t be a fool,” said the other, carelessly. “ What I 
meant was, that other times had other interests, and neither 


A WARM DISCUSSION. 


341 


she, nor you, nor, for that matter, I myself, want to live 
over the past again.” 

Paten threw his cigar angrily from him, and sat brooding 
and moody ; for some time nothing was heard between them 
save the clink of the decanter as they filled their glasses, and 
passed the wine. 

“ Trover ’s off,” muttered Paten, at last. 

“Off! Whereto?” 

“ To Malta, I believe ; and then to Egypt — anywhere, in 
short, till the storm blows over. This American crash has 
given them a sharp squeeze.” 

“I wonder who’ll get that Burgundy? I think I never 
drank such Chambertin as that he gave us t’ other night.” 

“I’d rather pick up that pan* of Hungarian chestnuts. 
They are the true ‘ Tucker’ breed, with nice straight sling- 
ing action.” 

“His pictures, too, were good.” 

“ And such cigars as the dog had ! He told me, I think, 
he had about fifteen thousand of those Cubans.” 

“ A vulgar hound ! — always boasting of his stable, or his 
cellar, or his conservatory ! I can’t say I feel sorry for 
him.” 

“Sorry for him! I should think not. The fellow has 
had his share of good fortune, living up there at that glo- 
rious villa in luxury. It ’s only fair he should take his turn 
on the shady side of the road.” 

“ These Heathcotes must have got it smartly too from the 
Yankees. They invested largely there of late.” 

‘ ‘ So Trover told me. Almost the last words he said were : 
‘ The man that marries that girl for an heiress, will find he 
has got a blind nut. Her whole fortune is swept away.’ ” 

“ I wonder is that true.” 

‘ ‘ I feel certain it is. Trover went into all sorts of figures 
to show it. I ’m not very much up in arithmetic, and so 
could n’t follow him ; but I gathered that they ’d made their 
book to lose, no matter how the match came off. That was 
to be expected when they trusted such things to a woman.” 

Another and a longer pause now ensued between them ; at 
length Paten broke it abruptly, saying, “And the girl — I 
mean Clara — what of her?” 


342 


ONE OF THEM. 


“It’s all arranged; she is to be Clara Stocmar, and a 
pensionnaire of the Conservatoire of Milan within a week.” 

“ Who says so?” asked Paten, defiantly. 

“ Her mother — well, you know whom I mean by that title 
— proposed, and I accepted the arrangement. She may, or 
may not, have dramatic ability ; like everything else in life, 
there is a lottery about it. If she reallj^ do show cleverness, 
she will be a prize just now. If she has no great turn of 
speed, as the jocks say, she ’ll always do for the Brazils and 
Havannah. They never send us their best cigars, and, in 
return, we only give them our third-rate singers ! ” 

It was evident in this speech that Stocmar was trying, by 
a jocular tone, to lead the conversation into some channel 
less irritating and disputatious ; but Paten’s features relaxed 
nothing of their stern severity, and he looked dogged and 
resolute as before. 

“ I think, Stocmar,” said he, at length, “ that there is still 
a word wanting to that same bargain you speak of. If the 
girl’s talents are to be made marketable, why should not I 
stand in for something? ” 

“ You, — you, Ludlow ! ” cried the other. “ In the name 
of all that is absurd, what pretext can you have for such a 
claim ? ” 

“Just this: that I am privy to the robbery, and might 
peach if not bought up.” 

“ You know well this is mere blind menace, Ludlow,” said 
the other, good-humoredly ; “ and as to letting off squibs, my 
boy, don’t forget that you live in a powder-magazine.” 

“And what if I don’t care for a blow-up? What if I tell 
you that I ’d rather send all sky-high to-morrow than see that 
woman succeed in all her schemes, and live to defy me ? ” 

“As to that,” said Stocmar, gravely, “the man who 
neither cares for his own life or character can always do 
damage to those of another ; there is no disputing about 
that.” 

“Well, I am exactly such a man, and she shall know it.” 
Not a word was spoken for several minutes, and then Paten 
resumed, but in a calmer and more deliberate tone, “ Trover 
has told me everything. I see her whole scheme. She 
meant to marry that old Baronet, and has been endeavoring, 


A WARM DISCUSSION. 


343 


by speculating in the share-market, to get some thousands 
together ; now, as the crash has smashed the money part of 
the scheme, the chances are it will have also upset the mar- 
riage. Is not that likely ? ” 

“That is more than I can guess,” said Stocmar, doubt- 

ingly* 

“ You can guess it, just as I can,” said Paten, half angrily. 
“She's not the woman to link her fortune with a ruined 
man. Can’t you guess that?"* Stocmar nodded, and Paten 
went on : “ Now, I mean to stand to win on either event, — 
that ’s my book.” 

“ I don’t understand you, Paul.” 

“ Call me Ludlow, confound you,” said Paten, passion- 
ately, “or that infernal name will slip out some day un- 
awares. What I would say is, that, if she wishes to be ‘ My 
Lady,’ she must buy me off first. If she’ll consent to be- 
come my wife, — that is the other alternative.” 

“ She’ll never do that,” said Stocmar, gravely. 

“ How do you know, — did she tell you so? ” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“You only know it, then, from your intimate acquaintance 
with her sentiments,” said he, sneeringly. ^ 

“ How I know, or why I believe it, is my own affair,” said 
Stocmar, in some irritation ; “ but such is my conviction.” 

“ Well, it is not mine,” said Paten, filling up his glass, 
and drinking it slowly off. “ I know her somewhat longer 
— perhaps somewhat better — than you do ; and if I know 
anything in her, it is that she never cherishes a resentment 
when it costs too high a price.” 

“ You are always the slave of some especial delusion, 
Ludlow,” said Stocmar, quietly. “You are possessed with 
the impression that she is afraid of you. Now, my firm per- 
suasion is, that the man or woman that can terrify her has 
yet to be born.” 

“ How she has duped you ! ” said Paten, insolently. 

“ That may be,” said he. “ There is, however, one error 
I have not fallen into, — I have not fancied that she is in 
love with me.” 

This sally told; for Paten became lividly pale, and he 
shook from head to foot with passion. Careful, however, to 


344 


ONE OF THEM. 


conceal the deep offence the speech had given him, he never 
uttered a word in reply. Stocmar saw his advantage, and 
was silent also. At last he spoke, but it was in a tone so 
conciliatory and so kindly withal, as to efface, if possible, 
all unpleasant memory of the last speech. “I wish you 
would be guided by me, Ludlow, in this business. It is not 
a question for passion or vindictiveness ; and I would simply 
ask you. Is there not space in the world for both of you, 
without any need to cross each other? Must your hatred of 
necessity bridge over all distance, and bring you incessantly 
into contact? In a word, can you not go your road, and let 
her go hers, unmolested ? ” 

‘‘ Our roads lie the same way, man. I want to travel 
with her,” cried Paten. 

“But not in spite of her! — not, surely, if she declines 
your company I ” 

“ Which you assume that she must, and I am as confident 
that she will not.” 

Stocmar made an impertinent gesture at this, which Paten, 
quickly perceiving, resented, by asking, in a tone of almost 
insult, “ What do you mean? Is it so very self-evident that 
a woman must reject me? Is that your meaning? ” 

“ Any woman that ever lived would reject the man who 
pursues her with a menace. So long as you presume to 
wield an influence over her by a threat, your case must be 
hopeless.” 

“ These are stage and behind-scene notions, — they never 
were gleaned from real life. Your theatrical women have 
little to lose, and it can’t signify much to them whether a 
story more or less attach to their names. Threats of expo- 
sure would certainly affright them little ; but your woman 
living in the world, holding her head amongst other women, 
criticising their dress, style, and manner, — think of her on 
the day that the town gets hold of a scandal about her ! Do 
you mean to tell me there ’s any price too high to pay for 
silencing it? ” 

“ What would you really take for those letters of hers, if 
she were disposed to treat for them ? ” 

“ I offered them once to old Nick Holmes for two thousand 
pounds. I ’d not accept that sum now.” 


A WAKM DISCUSSION. 


345 


“ But where or how could she command such an amount? ” 

“ That ’s no affair of mine. I have an article in the market, 
and I ’m not bound to trouble myself as to the straits of the 
purchaser. Look here, Hyman Stocmar,” said he, changing 
his voice to a lower tone, while he laid his hand on the other’s 
arm, — “ look here. You think me very vindictive and very 
malignant in all this, but if you only knew with what insults 
she has galled me, what cruel slights she has passed upon me, 
you ’d pity rather than condemn me. If she would have per- 
mitted me to see and speak to her, — if I could only be able 
to appeal to her myself, — I don’t think it would be in vain ; 
and, if I know anything of myself, I could swear I ’d bear 
up with the cruelest thing she could utter to me, rather than 
these open outrages that come conveyed through others.” 

“And if that failed, would you engage to restore her 
letters? — for some possible sum, I mean, for you know 
well two thousand is out of the question. She told me 
she could command some six or seven hundred pounds. 
She said so, believing that I really came to treat with her 
on the subject.” 

Paten shook his head dissentingly, but was silent. At 
last he said : ‘ ‘ She must have much more than this at her 
command, Stocmar. Hawke’s family never got one shil- 
ling by his death ; they never were able to trace what be- 
came of his money, or the securities he held in foreign 
funds. I remember how Godfrey used to go on about 
that girl of his being one day or other the greatest heiress 
of her time. Take my word for it. Loo could make some 
revelations on this theme. Come,” cried he, quickly, as a 
sudden thought flashed across him, “I’ll tell you what I’ll 
do. You are to meet her this evening at the masked ball. 
Let me go in your place. I ’ll give you my solemn prom- 
ise not to abuse the opportunity, nor make any scandal 
whatever. It shall be a mere business discussion between 
us ; so much for so much. If she comes to terms, well. 
If she does not agree to what I propose, there ’s no harm 
done. As I said before, there shall be no publicity, — no 
scene.” 

“I can’t accede to this, Ludlow. It would be a gross 
breach of faith on my part,” said Stocmar, gravely. 


346 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ All your punctilio, I remark, is reserved for her benefit,” 
said Paten, angrily. “ It never occurs to you to remember 
that I am the injured person.” 

“ I only think of the question as it displays a man on one 
side, and a woman on the other. Long odds in favor of the 
first, eh ? ” 

“ You think so! ” said Paten, with a sneer. “ By Jove ! 
how well you judge such matters ! I can’t help wondering 
what becomes of all that subtlety and sharpness you show 
when dealing with stage folk, when you come to treat with 
the world of every-day life. Why, I defy the wiliest ser- 
pent of the ballet to overreach you, and yet you suffer this 
woman to wind you round her finger ! ” 

“ Well, it is a very pretty finger ! ” laughed Stocmar. 

“ Yes, but to have you at her feet in this fashion ! ” 

“And what a beautiful foot too !” cried Stocmar, with 
enthusiasm. 

Something that sounded like a malediction was muttered 
by Paten as he arose and walked the room with passionate 
strides. “Once more, I say,” cried he, “ let me take your 
place this evening, or else I ’ll call on this old fool, — this 
Sir William Heathcote, — and give him the whole story of 
his bride. I ’m not sure if it ’s not the issue would give me 
most pleasure. I verily believe it would.” 

“It’s a smart price to pay for a bit of malice too ! ” said 
Stocmar, musing. “ I must say, there are some other ways 
in which the money would yield me as much pleasure.” 

“Is it a bargain, Stocmar? Do you say yes?” cried 
Paten, with heightened excitement. 

“ I don’t see how I can agree to it,” broke in the other. 
“If she distinctly tells me that she will not meet you — ” 

“Then she shall, by !” cried Paten, confirming the 

determination by a terrible oath. “ Look out now, Stocmar, 
for a scene,” continued he, “ and gratify yourself by the 
thought it is all your own doing. Had you accepted my 
proposal, I ’d have simply gone in your place, made myself 
known to her without scandal or exposure, and, in very 
few words, declared what my views were, and learned how 
far she’d concur with them. You prefer an open rupture 
before the world. Well, you shall have it!” 


A WARM DISCUSSION. 


347 


Stocmar employed all his most skilful arguments to oppose 
this course. He showed that, in adopting it, Paten sacri- 
ficed every prospect of self-interest and advantage, and, for 
the mere indulgence of a cruel outrage, that he compromised 
a position of positive benefit. The other, however, would 
not yield an inch. The extreme concession that Stocmar, 
after a long discussion, could obtain was, that the interview 
was not to exceed a few minutes, a quarter of an hour at 
furthest ; that there was to be no eclat or exposure, so far 
as he could pledge himself ; and that he would exonerate 
Stocmar from all the reproach of being a willing party to the 
scheme. Even with these stipulations, Stocmar felt far from 
being reconciled to the plan, and declared that he could never 
forgive himself for his share in it. 

“It is your confounded self-esteem is always uppermost 
in your thoughts,” said Paten, insolently. “Just please to 
remember you are no foreground figure in this picture, if you 
be any figure at all. I feel full certain she does not want 
you, — I ’ll take my oath I do not, — so leave us to settle our 
own affairs our own way, and don’t distress yourself because 
you can’t interfere with them.” 

With this rude speech, uttered in a tone insolent as the 
words. Paten arose and left the room. Scarcely had the 
door closed after him, however, than he reopened it, and 
said, — 

“ Only one word more, Stocmar. No double, — no treach- 
ery with me here. I ’ll keep my pledge to the very letter ; 
but if you attempt to trick or to overreach me, I ’ll blow up 
the magazine.” 

Before Stocmar could reply, he was gone. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


LOO AND HER FATHER. 

Mrs. Morris, supposed to be confined to her room with a 
bad headache, was engaged in dressing for the masked ball, 
when a small twisted note was delivered to her by her maid. 

“ Is the bearer of this below stairs?” asked she, eagerly. 
“ Show him in immediately.” 

The next moment, a short, burly figure, in a travelling- 
dress, entered, and, saluting her with a kiss on either cheek, 
unrolled his woollen comforter, and displayed the pleasant, 
jocund features of Mr. Nicholas Holmes. 

“ How well you are looking, papa ! ” said she. “ I declare 
I think you grow younger ! ” 

“ It’s the good conscience, T suppose,” said he, laughing. 
“ That and a good digestion help a man very far on his road 
through life. And how are you. Loo?” 

“ As you see,” said she, laughingly. With some of 
those family gifts you speak of, I rub on through the world 
tolerably well.” 

“You are not in mourning, I perceive. How is that?” 
asked he, looking at the amber-colored silk of her dress. 

“ Not to-night, papa, for I was just dressing for a masked 
ball at the Pergola, whither I was about to go on the sly, 
having given out that I was suffering from headache, and 
could not leave my room.” 

“ Fretting over poor Penthony, eh?” cried he, laughing. 

“ Well, of course that might also be inferred. Not but I 
have already got over my violent grief. 1 am beginning to 
be what is technically called ‘ resigned.’ ” 

“Which is, I believe, the stage of looking out for an- 
other ! ” laughed he again. 


LOO AND HER FATHER. 


349 


She gave a little faint sigh, and went on with her dress- 
ing. “ And what news have you for me, papa? What is 
going on at home ? ” 

“ Nothing, — absolutely nothing, dear. You don’t care 
for political news?” 

“Not much. You know I had a surfeit of Downing 
Street once. By the way, papa, only think of my meeting 
George ! ” 



“Ogden, — George Odgen?” 

“Yes, it was a strange accident. He came to fetch away 
a young lad that happened to be stopping with us, and we 
met face to face — fortunately, alone — in the garden.” 

“Very awkward that! ” muttered he. 

“So it was; and so he evidently felt it. By the way, 
how old he has grown ! George can’t be more than — let 
me see — forty-six. Yes, he was ju^t forty-six on the 8th 
of August. You ’d guess him fully ten years older.” 

“How did he behave? Did he recognize you and address 
you?” 



350 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Yes; we talked a little, — not pleasantly, though. He 
evidently is not forgiving in his nature, and you know he 
had never much tact, — except oflicial tact, — and so he was 
flurried and put out, and right glad to get away.” 

“But there was no eclat^ — no scandal?” 

“Of course not. The whole incident did not occupy ten 
minutes.” 

“They’ve been at me again about my pension, — his 
doing, I’m sure,” muttered he, — “asking for a return of 
services, and such-like rubbish.” 

“Don’t let them worry you, papa; they dare not push 
you tQ publicity. It ’s like a divorce case, where one of 
the parties, being respectable, must submit to any terms 
imposed.” 

“Well, that’s my own view of it, dear; and so I said, 
‘ Consult the secret instructions to the Under- Secretary for 
Ireland for an account of services rendered by N. H. ’ ” 

“You ’ll hear no more of it,” said she, flippantly. “What 
of Ludlow? Where is he?” 

“He ’s here. Don’t you know that? ” 

“Here! Do you mean in Florence? ” 

“Yes; he came with Stocmar. They are at the same 
hotel.” 

“I declare I half suspected it,” said she, with a sort of 
bitter laugh. “Oh, the cunning Mr. Stocmar, that must 
needs deceive me ! ” 

“And you have seen him?” 

“Yes; I settled about his taking Clara away with him. 
I want to get rid of her, — I mean altogether, — and Stoc- 
mar is exactly the person to manage these little incidents of 
the white slave-market. But,” added she, with some irri- 
tation, “that was no reason why you should dupe we, my 
good Mr. Stocmar! particularly at the moment when I had 
poured all my sorrows into your confiding breast ! ” 

“He ’s a very deep fellow, they tell me.” 

“No, papa, he is not. He has that amount of calculation 
— that putting this, that, and t’ other together, and seeing 
what they mean — which all Jews have; but he makes the 
same blunder that men of small craft are always making. 
He is eternally on the search after motives, just as if fifteen 


LOO AND HER FATHER. 351 

out of every twenty things in this life are not done without 
any motive at all ! ” 

“Only in Ireland, Loo, — only in Ireland.” 

“Nay, papa, in Ireland they do the full twenty,” said she, 
laughing. “But what has brought Ludlow here? He has 
certainly not come without a motive.” 

“To use some coercion over you, I suspect.” 

“Probably enough. Those weary letters, — those weary 
letters!” sighed she. “Oh, papa dear, —you who were 
always a man of a clear head and a subtle brain, — how did 
you fall into the silly mistake of having your daughter 
taught to write? Our nursery-books are crammed with 
cautious injunctions, — ‘ Don’t play with fire,’ &c., — and 
of the real peril of all perils not a word of warning is 
uttered, and nobody says, ‘ Avoid the inkstand. ’ ” 

“How could you have fallen into such a blunder?” said 
he, half peevishly. 

“ I gave rash pledges, papa, just as a bankrupt gives bad 
bills. I never believed I was to be solvent again.” 

“We must see what can be done. Loo. I know he is very 
hard up for money just now ; so that probably a few hun- 
dreds might do the business.” 

She shook her head doubtingly, but said nothing. 

“ A fellow-traveller of mine, unacquainted with him per- 
sonally, told me that his bills were seen everywhere about 
town.” 

“Who is your companion?” 

“An Irishman called O’Shea.” 

“And is the O’Shea here too?” exclaimed she, laugh- 
ingly- 

“Yes; since he has lost his seat in the House, England 
has become too hot for him. And, besides,” added he, 
slyly, “he has told me in confidence that if ‘ the party,’ as 
he calls them, should not give him something, he knows of 
a widow somewhere near this might suit him. ‘ I don’t say 
that she ’s rich, mind you,’ said he, ‘ but she ’s ’cute as a fox, 
and would be sure to keep a man’s head above water some- 
how.’ ” 

Mrs. Morris held her handkerchief to her mouth, but the 
sense of the ridiculous could not be suppressed, and she 
laughed out. 


S52 


ONE OF THEM. 


“What would I not have given to have heard him, papa! ” 
said she, at last. 

“Well, it really was good,” said he, wiping his eyes; for 
he, too, had indulged in a very hearty laugh, particularly 
when he narrated all the pains O’Shea had been at to dis- 
-cover who Penthony Morris was, where he came from, and 
what fortune he had. “ ‘ It was at first all in vain,’ said 
he, ‘ but no sooner did I begin to pay fellows to make 
searches for me, than I had two, or maybe three Penthony 
Morrises every morning by the post; and, what’s worse, all 
alive and hearty ! ’ ” 

“What did he do under these distressing circumstances? ” 
asked she, gayly. 

“He said he ’d give up the search entirely. ‘ There ’s 
no such bad hunting country,’ said he, ‘ as where there ’s too 
many foxes, and so I determined I ’d have no more Pen- 
thony Morrises, but just go in for the widow without any 
more inquiry. ’ ” 

“And have you heard the plan of his campaign? ” asked 
she. 

“ He has none, — at least, I think not. He trusts to his 
own attractions and some encouragement formerly held out 
to him.” 

“Indiscreet wretch!” said, she, laughing; “not but he 
told the truth there. I remember having given him some- 
thing like what lawyers call a retainer.” 

“Such a man might be very troublesome. Loo,” said he, 
-cautiously. 

“Not a bit of it, papa; he might be very useful, on the 
contrary. Indeed, I ’m not quite certain that I have not 
exactly the very service on which to employ him.” 

“Remember, Loo,” said he, warmly, “he’s a shrewd fel- 
low in his way.” 

“‘In his way’ he is, but his way is not mine^” said she, 
with a saucy toss of the head. “ Have you any idea, papa, 
of what may be the sort of place or employment he looks 
for? Is he ambitious, or has adversity taught him 
humility?” 

“A good deal depends upon the time of the day when 
one talks to him. Of a morning he is usually downcast 


LOO AND HER FATHER. 


353 


and depressed; he ’d go out as a magistrate to the Bahamas 
or consul to a Poyais republic. Towards dinner-time he 
grows more difficult and pretentious ; and when he has got 
three or four glasses of wine in, he would n’t take less than 
the Governorship of a colony.” 

“Then it’s of an evening one should see him.” 

“Nay, I should say not. Loo. I would rather take him 
at his cheap moment.” 

“Quite wrong, papa, — quite wrong. It is when his 
delusions are strongest that he will be most easily led. His 
own vanity will be the most effectual of all intoxications. 
But you may leave him to me without fear or misgiving.” 

“I suppose so,” said he, dryly. And a silence of some 
minutes ensued. “ Why are you taking such pains about 
your hair. Loo,” asked he, “if you are going in domino?” 

“None can ever tell when or where they must unmask in 
this same life of ours, papa,” said she, laughingly; “and I 
have got such a habit of providing for casualties that I 
have actually arranged m}^ papers and letters in the fashion 
they ought to be found in after my death.” 

Holmes sighed. The thought of such a thing as death is 
always unwelcome to a man with a light auburn wig and a 
florid complexion, who wants to cheat Fate into the notion 
that he is hale and hearty, and who likes to fancy himself 
pretty much what he was fifteen or twenty years ago. And 
Holmes sighed with a feeling of compassionate sorrow for 
himself. 

“By the way, papa,” said she, in a careless, easy tone, 
“where are you stopping? ” 

“At the Hotel d’ltalie, my dear.” 

“What do you think, — hadn’t you better come here?” 

“I don’t exactly know, nor do I precisely see how.” 

“Leave all that to me, papa. You shall have an invita- 
tion, — ‘ Sir William Heathcote’S compliments,’ &c., — all 
in due form, in the course of the day, and I ’ll give directions 
about your room. You have no servant, I hope? ” 

“None.” 

“So much the better; there is no guarding against the 
garrulity of that class, and all the craftiest stratagems of 
the drawing-room are often undermined in the servants 

23 


354 


ONE OE THEM. 


hall. As for yourself, you know that you represent the late 
Captain’s executor. You were the guardian of poor dear 
Penthony, and his oldest friend in the world.” 

“Knew him since he was so high! ” said he, in a voice of 
mock emotion, as he held out his extended palm about two 
feet above the floor. 

“That will give you a world of trouble, papa, for you’ll 
have to prepare yourself with so much family history, 
explaining what Morrises they were, how they were Pen- 
thonys, and so on. Sir William will torture you about 
genealogies.” ^ 

“I have a remedy for that, my dear,” said he, slyly. “I 
am most painfully deaf! No one will maintain a conversa- 
tion of a quarter of an hour with me without risking a sore 
throat; not to say that no one can put delicate - questions in 
the voice of a boatswain.” 

“Dear papa, you are always what the French call ‘ at the 
level of the situation,’ and your deafness will be charm- 
ing, for our dear Baronet and future husband has a most 
inquisitive turn, and would positively torture you with in- 
terrogatories.” 

“ He ’ll be more than mortal if he don’t give in. Loo. I 
gave a Lunacy Commissioner once a hoarseness that re- 
quired a course of the waters at Vichy to cure; not to say 
that, by answering at cross purposes, one can disconcert 
the most zealous inquirer. But now, my dear, that I am in 
possession of my hearing, do tell me something about your- 
self and your plans.” 

“I have none, papa, — none,” said she, with a faint sigh. 
“Sir William Heathcote has, doubtless, many, and into 
some of them I may perhaps enter. He intends, for in- 
stance, that some time in March I shall be Lady Heathcote ; 
that we shall go and live — I’m not exactly sure where, 
though I know we ’re to bfe perfectly happy, and, not wish- 
ing to puzzle him, I don’t ask how.” 

“ I have no doubt you will be happy. Loo, ” said he, confi- 
dently. “ Security, safety, my dear, are great elements of 
happiness.” 

“I suppose they are,” said she, with another sigh; “and 
when one has been a privateer so long, it is pleasant to be 


LOO AND HER FATHER. 


355 


enrolled in the regular navy, even though one should be 
laid up in ordinary.” 

“Nay, nay. Loo, no fear of that! ” 

“ On the contrary, papa, every hope of it! The best thing 
I could ask for would be oblivion.” 

“My dear Loo,” said he, impressively, “the world has not 
got one half so good a memory as you fancy. It is our 
own foolish timidity — what certain folk call conscience — 
that suggests the idea how people are talking of us, and, 
like the valet in the comedy, we begin confessing our 
sins before we "re accused of them ! ” 

“I know that is your theory, papa,’" said she, laughing, 
“and that one ought always to ‘die innocent." ” 

“Of course, my dear. It is only the jail chaplain bene- 
fits by what is called ‘ a full disclosure of the terrible 
tragedy." "" 

“I hear my carriage creeping up quietly to the door,” 
said she, listening. “Be sure you let me see you early to- 
morrow. Good-night.” 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


A GRAVE SCENE IN LIGHT COMPANY. 

Moralists have often found a fruitful theme in the utter 
barrenness of all the appliances men employ for their pleas- 
ures. What failures follow them, what weariness, what 
satiety and heart-sickness ! The feast of Belshazzar every- 
where ! 

To the mere eye nothing could be moije splendid, nothing 
more suggestive of enjoyment, than the Pergola of Flor- 
ence when brilliantly lighted and thronged with a gay and 
merry company. Character figures in every variety fancy 
or caprice could suggest — Turks, Styrians, Highlanders, 
Doges, Dervishes, and Devils — abounded, with Pifferari 
from Calabria, Muleteers, Matadors, and Conjurers; Boy- 
ards from Tobolsk jostled Male Crusaders, and Demons 
that might have terrified St. Anthony flitted past with Sis- 
ters of Charity! Strange parody upon the incongruities of 
our every-day life, costume serving but to typify the moral 
incompatibilities which are ever at work in our actual exist- 
ence ! for are not the people we see linked together — are 
not the social groupings we witness — just as widely sepa- 
rated by every instinct and every sentiment as are these 
characters in all their motley ? Are the two yonder, as they 
sit at the fireside, not as remote from each other as though 
centuries had rolled between them? They toil along, it is 
true, together ; they drag the same burden, but with different 
hopes and fears and motives. Bethink you “the friends 
so linked together ” are like-minded? No, it is all masquer- 
ade ; and the motley is that same easy conventionality by 
which we hope to escape undetected and unknown ! 

Our business now is not with the mass of this great 
assemblage; we are only interested for two persons, — one of 


A GRAVE SCENE IN LIGHT COMPANY. 


357 


whom, a tall figure in a black domino, leans against a pillar 
yonder, closely scrutinizing each new-comer that enters, 
and eagerly glancing at the sleeve of every yellow domino 
that passes. 

He has been there from an early hour of the evening, and 
never left it since. Many a soft voice has whispered some 
empty remark on his impassiveness ; more than once a jest- 
ing sarcasm has been uttered upon his participation in the 
gayety around; but he has never replied, but with folded 
arms patiently awaited the expected one. At last he is 
joined by another, somewhat shorter and stouter, but 
dressed like him, who, bending close to his ear, whispers, — 

“Why are you standing here, — have you not seen 
her? ” 

“No; she has never passed this door.’’ 

‘‘ She entered by the stage, and has been walking about 
this hour. I saw her talking to several, to whom, to judge 
by their gestures, her remarks must have been pointed 
enough ; but there she is, — see, she is leaning on the arm 
of that Malay chief. Join her; you know the signal.” 

Paten started suddenly from his lounging attitude, and 
cleft his way through the crowd, little heeding the com- 
ments his rude persistence called forth. As he drew nigh 
where the yellow domino stood, he hesitated and glanced 
around him, as though he felt that every eye was watching 
him, and only after a moment or so did he seem to remem- 
ber that he was disguised. At last he approached her, and, 
taking her sleeve in his hand, unpinned the little cross of 
tricolored ribbon and fastened it on his own domino. With 
a light gesture of farewell she quickly dismissed her cavalier 
and took his arm. 

As he led her along through the crowd, neither spoke, and 
it was only at last, as seemingly baffled to find the spot he 
sought for, she said, — 

“All places are alike here. Let us talk as we walk 
along.” 

A gentle pressure on her arm seemed to assent, and she 
went on : — 

“It was only at the last moment that I determined to 
come here this evening. You have deceived me. Yes; 


358 


ONE OF THEM. 


don't deny it. Paten is with you here, and you never told 
me.” 

He muttered something that sounded like apology. 

“It was unfair of you,” said she, hurriedly, “for I was 
candid and open with you; and it was needless, besides, 
for we are as much apart as if hundreds of miles separated 
us. I told you already as much.” 

“But why not see him? He alone can release you from 
the bond that ties you ; he may be more generous than you 
suspect.” 

“He generous I Who ever called him so? ” 

“Many who knew him as well as you,” cried he, suddenly. 

With a bound she disengaged her arm from him, and 
sprang back. 

“Do not touch me; lay so much as a finger on me, and 
I T1 unmask and call upon this crowd for protection! ” cried 
she, in a voice trembling with passion. “I know you 
now.” 

“Let me speak with you a few words, — the last I shall 
ever ask,” muttered he, “and I promise all you dictate.” 

“Leave me — leave me at once,” said she, in a mere whis- 
per. “If you do not leave me, I will declare aloud who 
you are.” 

“Who we are; don’t forget yourself,” muttered he. 

“For that I care not. I am ready.” 

“For mercy’s sake. Loo, do not,” cried he, as she lifted 
her hand towards the strings of her mask. “I will go. 
You shall never see me more. I came here to make the 
one last reparation I owe you, to give you up your letters, 
and say good-bye forever.” 

“That you never did, — never! ” cried she, passionately. 
“You came because you thought how, in the presence of 
this crowd, the terror of exposure would crush my woman’s 
heart, and make me yield to any terms you pleased.” 

“If I swear to you by all that I believe is true — ” 

“You never did believe; your heart rejected belief. 
When I said I knew you, I meant it all : I do know you. I 
know, besides, that when the scaffold received one criminal, 
it lett another, and a worse, behind. For many a year you 
have made my life a hell. I would not care to go on thus; 


A GRAVE SCENE IN LIGHT COMPANY. 


359 


all your vengeance and all the acorn of the world would be 
light compared to what I wake to meet each morning, and 
close my eyes to, as I sleep at night.” 

“Listen to me. Loo, but for one moment. I do not want 
to justify myself. Y'ou are not more wretched than I am, 
— utterly, irretrievably wretched ! ” 

“Where are the letters? ” said she, in a low whisper. 
“They are here, — in Florence.” 

“What sum will you take for them?” 



“They shall be yours unbought, Loo, if you will but hear 
me.” 

“I want the letters; tell me their price.” 

“The price is simply one meeting — one opportunity to 
clear myself before you — to show you how for years my 
heart has clung to you.” 

“I cannot buy them at this cost. Tell me how much 
money you will have for them.” 

“It is your wish to outrage, to insult me, then?” mut- 
tered he, in a voice thick with passion. 

“Now you are natural; now you are yourself; and now I 
can speak to you. Tell me your price.” 


360 


ONE OE THEM. 


“Your shame! — your open degradation! The spectacle 
of your exposure before all Europe, when it shall have been 
read in every language and talked of in every city.” 

“I have looked for that hour for many a year, Paul Hunt, 
and its arrival would be mercy, compared with the daily 
menace of one like you.*' 

“The story of the murder again revived; the life you led, 
the letters themselves revealing it; the orphan child robbed 
of her inheritance; the imposture of your existence abroad 
here ! — what variety in the scenes ! what diversity in the 
interests ! ” 

“1 am far from rich, but I would pay you liberally, Paul,” 
said she, in a voice low and collected. 

“Cannot you see, woman, that by this language you are 
wrecking your last hope of safety?” cried he, insolently. 
“ Is it not plain to you that you are a fool to insult the hand 
that can crush you ? ” 

“But I am crushed; I can fall no lower,” whispered she, 
tremulously. 

“Oh, dearest Loo, if you would forgive me for the 
past! ” 

“I cannot — I cannot! ” burst she out, in a voice scarcely 
above a whisper. “I have done all I could, but I cannot! ” 

“ If you only knew how I was tempted to it. Loo ! If you 
but heard the snare that was laid for me ! ” 

A scornful toss of her head was all her answer. 

“It is in my consciousness of the wrong I have done you 
that I seek this reparation. Loo,” said he, eagerly. “When 
I speak otherwise, it is my passion gives utterance to the 
words. My heart is, however, true to you.” 

“Will you let me have my letters, and at what cost? I 
tell you again, I am not rich, but I will pay largely, liber- 
ally here.” 

“Let me confess it. Loo,” said he, in a trembling tone, 
“these letters are the one last link between us. It is not for 
a menace I would keep them, — so help me Heaven, the hour 
of your shame would be that of my death, — but I cling to 
them as the one tie that binds my fate to yours. I feel that 
when I surrender them, that tie is broken ; that I am noth- 
ing to you ; that you would hear my name unmoved, and see 


A GRAVE SCENE IN LIGHT COMPANY. 361 

me- pass without a notice. Bethink you, then, that you 
ask me for what alone attaches me to existence.” 

“I cannot understand such reasonings,” said she, coldly. 
‘‘ These letters have no other value save the ruin they can 
work me. If not employed to that end, they might as well 
blacken in the fire or moulder into dust. You tell me you 
are not in search of any vengeance on me, and it is much 
to say, for I never injured you, while you have deeply 
injured me. Why, therefore, not give up what you own to 
be so useless? ” 

“For the very reason I have given you. Loo; that, so 
long as I hold them, I have my interest in your heart, and 
you cannot cease to feel bound up with my destiny.” 

“And is not this vengeance? ” asked she, quietly. “Can 
you picture to your mind a revenge more cruel, living on 
from day to day, and gathering force from time ? ” 

“But to me there is ever the hope that the past might come 
back again.” 

“Never — never!” said she, resolutely. “The man wha 
has corrupted a woman’s heart may own as much of it as can 
feel love for him; but he who has held up to shame the dis- 
honor he has provoked must be satisfied with her loathing^ 
and her hate.” 

“And you tell me that these are my portion? ” said he, 
sternly. 

“Your conscience can answer how you have earned them.” 

They walked along side by side in silence for some time, 
and at last she said, “How much better, for both of us, to 
avoid words of passion or remembrances of long ago.” 

“You loved me once. Loo,” broke he in, with deep emotion. 

“And if I once contracted a debt which I could not pay 
you now, would you insult me for my poverty, or persecute 
me? I do not think so, Ludlow.” 

“And when I have given them to you. Loo, and they are 
in your hands, how are we to meet again? Are we to be as 
utter strangers to each other?” said he, in deep agitation. 

“Yes,” replied she, “it is as such we must be. There i& 
no hardship in this ; or, if there be, only what one feels in 
seeing the house he once lived in occupied by another, — a 
passing pang, perhaps, but no more.” 


362 


ONE OE THEM. 


“How you are changed, Loo! ” cried he. 

“How silly would it be for the trees to burst out in bud 
with winter I and the same folly were it for us not to change 
as life wears on. Our spring is past, Ludlow.’" 

“But I could bear all if you were not changed to me,” 
cried he, passionately. 

“Far worse, again. I am changed to myself, so that I do 
not know myself,” said she. 

“I know well how your heart reproaches me for all this. 
Loo,” said he, sorrowfully; “how you accuse me of being 
the great misfortune of your life. Is it not so? ” 

“ Who can answer this better than yourself?” cried she, 
bitterly. 

“And yet, was it not the whole aim and object of my 
existence to be otherwise ? Did I not venture everything for 
your love ? ” 

“ If you would have me talk with you, speak no more of 
this. You have it in your power to do me a great service, 
or work me a great injury ; for the first, I mean to be more 
than grateful ; that is, I would pay all I could command ; for 
the last, your recompense must be in the hate you bear me. 
Decide which path you will take, and let me face my future 
as best I may.” 

“ There is one other alternative. Loo, which you have 
forgotten.” 

‘ ‘ What is it ? ” 

“Can you not forgive me?” said he, almost sobbing as 
he spoke. 

“ I cannot, — I cannot,” said she. “ You ask me for more 
than any human heart could yield. All that the world can 
heap upon me of contempt w^ould be as nothing to what I 
should feel for myself if I stooped to that. No, no ; follow 
out your vengeance if it must be, but spare me to my own 
heart.” 

“ Do you know the insults you cast upon me? ” cried he, 
savagely. “ Are you aware that it is to my own ears you 
speak these words ? ” 

“ Do not quarrel with me because I deal honestly by 
you,” said she, firmly. “ I will not promise that I cannot 
pay. Remember, too, Ludlow, that what I ask of you I do 


A GRAVE SCENE IN LIGHT COMPANY. 


363 


not ask from your generosity. I make no claim to what I 
have forfeited all right. I simply demand the price you set 
upon a certain article of which to me the possession is more 
than life. I make no concealment from you. I own it 
frankly — openly.” 

“ You want your letters, and never to hear more of me ! ” 
said he, sternly. 

“ What sum will you take for them? ” said she, in a slow, 
whispering voice. 

“ You ask what will enable you to set me at defiance for- 
ever, Loo ! Say it frankly and fairly. You want to tear 
your bond and be free.” 

She did not speak, and he went on, — 

“ And you can ask this of the man you abhor! you can 
stoop to solicit him whom, of all on earth, you hate the 
most ! ” 

Still she was silent. 

“Well,” said he, after a lengthened pause, “you shall 
have them. I will restore them to you. I have not got 
them here, — they are in England, — but I will fetch them. 
My word on it that I will keep my pledge. I see,” added he, 
after an interval, in which he expected she would speak, but 
was still silent, — “I see how little faith you repose in a 
promise. Y'ou cannot spare one word of thanks for what 
you regard as so uncertain ; but I can endure this, for I have 
borne worse. Once more, then, I swear to you, you shall 
have your letters back. I will place them myself in your 
hands, and before witnesses too. Remember that, Loo — 
before witnesses 1 ” And with these words, uttered with a 
sort of savage energy, he turned away from her, and was 
soon lost in the crowd. 

“ I have followed you this hour. Loo,” said a low voice 
beside her. 

She turned and took the speaker’s arm, trembling all over, 
and scarcely able to keep from falling. 

“ Take me away, father, — take me away from this,” said 
she, faintly. “ I feel very ill.” 

“ It was Paten was with you. I could not mistake him,” 
said Holmes. “ What has occurred between you? ” 

“ I will tell you all when I get home,” said she, still 


364 


ONE OF THEM. 


speaking faintly. And now they moved through the motley 
crowd, with sounds of mirth and words of folly making din 
around them. Strange discrepant accents to fall on hearts 
as full as theirs! “How glad I am to breathe this fresh 
cold night air,” cried she, as they gained the street. “ It 
was the heat, the noise, and the confusion overcame me, but 
I am better now.” 

“ And how have you parted with him?” asked her father, 
eagerly. 

“ With a promise that sounds like a threat,” said she, in a 
hollow voice. “ But you shall hear all.” 


I 


CHAPTER XXXVIL 


MR. STOCMAR’s visit. 

It was not without trepidation that Mr. Stocmar presented 
himself, the morning after the events we have recorded, at 
the residence of Sir William Heathcote. His situation was, 
indeed, embarrassing ; for not only had he broken faith with 
Mrs. Morris in permitting Paten to take his place at the ball, 
but as Paten had started for England that same night with- 
out even communicating with him, Stocmar was completely 
puzzled what to do, and how to comport himself. 

That she would receive him haughtily, disdainfully even, 
he was fully prepared for ; that she would reproach him — 
not very measuredly too — for his perfidy regarding Paten, 
he also expected. But even these difficulties were less than 
the embarrassment of not knowing how her meeting with 
Paten had been conducted, and to what results it had led. 
More than once did he stop in the street and deliberate with 
himself whether he should not turn back, hasten to his hotel, 
and leave Florence without meeting her. Nor was he quite 
able to saj^ why he resisted this impulse, nor how it was that, 
in defiance of all his terrors, he found himself at length at 
her door. 

The drawing-room into which he was shown was large and 
splendidly furnished. A conservatory opened from one end, 
and at the other a large folding glass door gave upon a 
spacious terrace, along which a double line of orange-trees 
formed an alley of delicious shade. Scarcely had Stocmar 
passed the threshold than a very silvery voice accosted him 
from without. 

“ Oh, do come here, dear Mr. Stocmar, and enjoy the 
delightful freshness of this terrace. Let me present a very 
old friend of my family to you, — Captain Holmes. He has 


366 


ONE OE THEM. 


just returned from India, and can give you the very latest 
news of the war.” And the gentlemen bowed, and smiled, 
and looked silly at each other. “ Is not all this very charm- 
ing, Mr. Stocmar? — at a season, too, when we should, in 
our own country, be gathering round coal-fires and screening 
ourselves from draughts. I am very angry with you, — very,” 
whispered she, as she gave him her hand to kiss, “and I 
am not at all sure if I mean ever to be friends with you 
again.” 

And poor Mr. Stocmar bowed low and blushed, not 
through modesty, indeed, but delight, for he felt like the 
schoolboy who, dreading to be punished, hears he is to be 
rewarded. 

“ But I am forgiven, am I not? ” muttered he. 

“Hush! Be cautious,” whispered she. “Here comes 
Sir William Heathcote. Can’t you imagine yourself to have 
known him long ago ? ” 

The hint was enough ; and as the old Baronet held out his 
hand with his accustomed warmth, Stocmar began a calcu- 
lation of how many years had elapsed since he had first 
enjoyed the honor of shaking that hand. This is a sort of 
arithmetic elderly gentlemen have rather a liking for. It is 
suggestive of so many pleasant little platitudes about “long 
ago,” with anecdotic memories of poor dear Dick or Harry, 
that it rarely fails to interest and amuse. And so they dis- 
cussed whether it was not in ’38 or ’39, — whether in spring 
or in autumn, — if Boulter — “poor Tom,” as they laughingly 
called him — had not just married the widow at that time ; 
and, in fact, through the intervention of some mock dates 
and imaginary incidents, they became to each other like very 
old friends. 

Those debatable nothings are of great service to English- 
men who meet as mere acquaintances ; they relieve the awk- 
wardness of looking out for a topic, and they are better 
than the eternal question of the weather. Sir William had, 
besides, a number of people to ask after, and Stocmar knew 
everybody, and knew them, too, either by some nickname, or 
some little anecdotic clew very amusing to those w^ho have 
lived long enough in the world to be interested by the same 
jokes on the same people, — a time of life, of course, not 


MR. STOCMAR’S VISIT. 


367 


ours, dear reader, though we may come to it one day ; and 
Captain Holmes listened to the reminiscences, and smiled, 
and smirked, and “very true’d,” to the great enjoyment of 
the others ; while Mrs. Morris stole noiselessly here and 
there, cutting camellias for a bouquet, but not unwatchful of 
the scene. 

“I hope and trust I have been misinformed about your 
plans here, Mr. Stocmar,” said Sir William, who was so 
happy to recall the names of former friends and acquaint- 
ances. “You surely do not mean to run away from us so 
soon ? 

A quick glance from Mrs. Morris telegraphed his reply, 
and he said, “ I am most unfortunately limited for time. I 
shall be obliged to leave immediately.” 

“A day or two you could surely spare us?” said 
Heathcote. 

Stocmar shook his head with a deploring smile, for another 
glance, quick as the former, had given him his instructions. 

“ I have told you. Sir William, how inexorable he is about 
Clara ; and although at first I stoutly opposed his reasonings, 
I am free to own that he has convinced me his plan is the 
true one ; and as he has made all the necessary arrangements, 
— have you not, Mr. Stocmar? — and they are charming 
people she will be with, — he raves about them,” said she, in 
a sort of whisper, while she added, still lower, “ and I partly 
explained to him my own projected change, — and, in fact, it 
is better as it is, — don’t you think so ? ” and thus hurrying 
Sir William along, — a process not unlike that by which an 
energetic rider hustles a lazy horse through heavy ground, — 
she at least made him feel grateful that he was not called 
upon for any increased exercise of his judgment. And then 
Stocmar followed, like another counsel in the same brief, — 
half jocularly, to be sure, and like one not required to sup- 
ply more than some illustrative arguments. He remarked 
that young ladies nowadays were expected to be models of 
erudition, — downright professors ; no smatterings of French 
and Italian, no water-color sketches touched up by the 
master, — “ they must be regular linguists, able to write like 
De S-^'vigne, and interpret Dante.” In a word, so much did 
he improve the theme, that he made Sir William shudder at 


S68 


ONE OF THEM. 


the bare thought of being domesticated with so much loose 
learning, and thank his stars that he had been born in a 
generation before it. Not but the worthy Baronet had his 
own secret suspicions that Clara wanted little aid from all 
their teachings ; his firm belief being that she was the most 
quick-witted, gifted creature ever existed, and it was in a 
sort of triumphant voice he asked Mrs. Morris, “ Has Mr. 
Stocmar seen her ? ” 

“ Not yet,” said she, dryly. “ Clara is in my room. Mr. 
Stocmar shall see her presently ; for, as he insists on leaving 
this to-morrow — ” 

“ To-morrow — to-morrow ! ” cried Sir William, in amaze- 
ment. 

And then Stocmar, drawing close to Sir William, began 
confidentially to impart to him how, partly from over-per- 
suasion of certain great people, partly because he liked that 
sort of thing, he had got into theatrical management. “ One 
must do something. You know,” said he, “I hate farming, 
never was much of a sportsman, had no turn for politics ; 
and so, by Jove! I thought I’d try the stage. I mean, of 
course, as manager, director, ‘ impresario,’ or whatever you 
call it. I need not tell you it ’s a costly amusement, so far 
as expense goes. I might have kept the best house in town, 
and the best stables in Leicestershire, for far less than I have 
indulged my dramatic tastes ; but I like it : it amuses, it 
interests me ! ” And Stocmar drew himself up and stuck his 
hands into his waistcoat-pockets, as though to say, “ Gaze, 
and behold a man rich enough to indulge a costly caprice, 
and philosophic enough to pay for the pleasure that rewards 
him.” “ Yes, sir,” he added, “ my last season, though the 
Queen took her private box, and all my noble friends stood 
stanchly to me, brought me in debt no less than thirteen 
thousand seven hundred pounds ! That ’s paying for one’s 
whistle, sir, — eh ? ” cried he, as though vain of his own 
defeat. 

“You might have lost it in the funds, and had no pleasure 
for it,” said Sir William, consolingly. 

“ The very remark I made, sir. The very thing I said to 
Lord Snaresby. I might have been dabbling in those Yan- 
kee securities, and got hit just as hard.” 


MR. STOCMAR’S VISIT. 


369 


Sir William made a wry face, and turned away. He hoped 
that Captain Holmes had not overheard the allusion ; but the 
Captain was deep in “ Galignani,” and heard nothing. 

“It is this,’* continued Stocmar, “recalls me so suddenly 
to England. We open on the 24th, and I give you my word 
of honor we have neither tenor, basso, nor barytone engaged, 
nor am I quite sure of my prima donna.” 

“Who ever was?” whispered Mrs. Morris, slyly; and 
then added aloud, “ Come now, and let me present Clara to 
you. We’ll return presently, Sir William.” And, so say- 
ing, she slipped her arm within Stocmar’s and led him 
away. 

“Who is that Captain Holmes?” asked he, as they 
walked along. 

“ Oh, a nobody ; an old muff.” 

“Is he deaf, or is it mere pretence?” 

“ Deaf as a post.” 

“I know his face perfectly. I’ve seen him about town 
for years back.” 

“Impossible! He has been collecting revenue, distress- 
ing Talookdars, or Ryots, or whatever they are, in India, 
these thirty-odd years. It was some one you mistook for 
him.” She had her hand on the lock of the door as she said 
this. She paused before opening it, and said, “Remember, 
you are her guardian, — your word is law.” And they 
entered. 

Stocmar was certainly not prepared for the appearance of 
the young girl who now rose to receive him with all the 
practised ease of the world. She was taller, older-looking, 
and far handsomer than he expected, and, as Mrs. Morris 
said, “ Your guardian, Clara,” she courtesied deeply, and 
accepted his salutation at once with deference and reserve. 

“ I am in the most painful of all positions,” began he, 
with a courteous smile. “ My first step in your acquaint- 
ance is as the ungracious herald of a separation from all 
you love.” 

“ I have been prepared, sir, for your intentions regarding 
me,” said she, coldly. 

“ Yes, Mr. Stocmar,” broke in Mrs. Morris, quickly, 
“ though Clara is very young, she is thoroughly aware of our 

24 


370 


ONE OF THEM. 


circumstances; she knows the narrowness of our fortune, 
and the necessity we are under of effort for our future 
support. Her own pride and her feeling for me are sufficient 
reasons for keeping such matters secret. She is not ignorant 
of the world, little as she has seen of it, and she comprehends 
that our acceptance with our friends is mainly dependent on 
our ability to dispense with their assistance. 

“ Am I to be a governess, sir?” asked Clara, with a calm 
which the deathlike paleness of her face showed to have cost 
her dearly. 

“A governess! a governess!” repeated he, looking at 
Mrs. Morris for his cue, for the suddenness of the question 
had routed all his preparations. “I think not, — I should 
hope not ; indeed, I am enabled to say, there is no thought of 
that.” 

“If so,” continued Clara, in the same calm tone, “I 
should like to be with very young children. I am not afraid 
of being thought menial.” 

“Clara,” broke in Mrs. Morris, harshly, “Mr. Stocmar 
has already assured you that he does not contemplate this 
necessity.” She looked towards him as she spoke, and he 
at once saw it was his duty to come up to the rescue, and 
this he did with one of those efforts all his own. He launched 
forth boldly into generalities about education and its ad- 
vantages ; how, with the development of the mind and the 
extension of the resources, came new fields of exercise, fresh 
realms of conquest. “ None of us, my dear young lady,” 
cried he, “ not the worldliest nor the wisest of us, can ever 
tell when a particular acquirement will be the key-stone of 
our future fortune.” He illustrated his theory with copious in- 
stances. “ There was Mademoiselle Justemar, whom nobody 
had ever imagined to be an artiste, came out as Alice one 
evening that the prima donna was ill, and took the whole 
town by storm. There was that little creature, Violetta ; 
who ever fancied she could dance till they saw her as Titania ? 
Every one knew of Giulia Barducci, taken from the chorus, 
to be the greatest Norma of the age.” 

He paused and looked at her, with a stare of triumph in 
his features ; his expression seemed to say, “ What think you 
of that glorious Paradise I have led you to look at ? ” 


UR. STOCMAR’S VISIT. 


371 


“It is very encouraging indeed, sir,” said Clara, dryly, 
but with no semblance of irony, — “ very encouraging. 
There is, then, really no reason that one day I might not b^e 
a rope-dancer.” 

“ Clara,” cried Mrs. Morris, severely, “ you must curb this 
habit, if you will not do better by abandoning it altogether. 
The spirit of repartee is the spirit of impertinence.” 

“I had really hoped, mamma,” said she, with an air of 
simplicity, “ that, as all Mr. Stocmar’s illustrations were 



taken from the stage, I had caught the spirit of his examples 
in giving one from the circus.” 

“I’ll be sworn you’re fond of riding,” cried Stocmar, 
eager to relieve a very awkward crisis even by a stupid 
remark. 

“Yes, sir ; and I am very clever in training. I know the 
whole ‘Bauchet’ system, and can teach a horse his ‘flex- 
ions,’ and the rest of it. — Well, but, mamma,” broke she 
in, apologetically, “ surely my guardian ought to be aware of 
my perfections ; and if you won’t inform him, I must.” 

“You perceive, sir,” said Mrs. Morris, “that when I 
spoke of her flippancy, I was not exaggerating.” 


372 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ You may rely upon it, Mr. Stocmar,” continued Clara, 
“mamma’s description of me was only justice.” 

Stocmar laughed, and hoped that the others would have 
joined him ; but in this he was unhappily disappointed : they 
were even graver than before ; Mrs. Morris showing, in her 
heightened color, a degree of irritation, while Clara’s pale 
face betrayed no sign of emotion. 

“You are to leave this to-morrow, Clara,” said Mrs. 
Morris, coldly. 

“Very well, mamma,” was the quiet answer. 

“ You don’t seem very eager to know for whither,” said 
Stocmar, smiling. “ Are all places alike to you? ” 

“Pretty much so, sir,” said she, in the same voice. 

“ You were scarcely prepared for so much philosophy, I ’m 
sure, Mr. Stocmar,” said Mrs. Morris, sneeringly. “Pray 
confess yourself surprised.” 

“Call it ignorance, mamma, and youTl give it the right 
name. What do I know of the world, save from guide and 
road books? and, from the little I have gleaned, many a 
village would be pleasanter to me than Paris.” 

“More philosophy, sir. You perceive what a treasure of 
wisdom is about to be intrusted to your charge.” 

“Pray bear that in mind, sir,” said Clara, with a light 
laugh; “and don’t forget that though the casket has such a 
leaden look, it is all pure gold.” 

Never was poor Stocmar so puzzled before. He felt sail- 
ing between two frigates in action, and exposed to the fire 
of each, though a non-combatant; nor was it of any use 
that he hauled down his fiag, and asked for mercy, — they 
only loaded and banged away again. 

“I must say,” cried he at last, “that I feel very proud of 
my ward.” 

“And I am charmed with my guardian,” said she, courtesy- 
ing, with an air that implied far more of grace than sincer- 
ity in its action. 

Mrs. Morris bit her lip, and a small red spot on her cheek 
glowed like a fiame. 

“I have explained fully to Mr. Stocmar, Clara,” said she, 
in a cold, calm tone, “that from to-morrow forward your 
allegiance will be transferred from me to him ; that with 


MR. STOCMAR’S VISIT. 


373 


him will rest all authority and direction over you ; that, how- 
ever interested — naturally interested — I must continue to 
feel in your future, Ae, and he alone, must be its arbiter. 
I repeat this now, in his presence, that there may be no risk 
of a misconception.” 

“Am I to write to you, mamma?” asked the girl, in a 
voice unmoved as her own. 

“Yes, you will write; that is, I shall expect to hear from 
you in reply to my letters. This we will talk over 
together.” 

“Am I to correspond with you, sir?” said she, address- 
ing Stocmar in the same impassive way. 

“Oh! by all means. I shall take it as the greatest of 
favors. I shall be charmed if you will honor me so far.” 

“I ask, sir,” continued she, “because I may chance to 
have companions in the place to which I am going ; and, 
even to satisfy their scruples, one ought to have some 
belongings.” 

There was not the shadow of irritation in the manner in 
which these words were spoken ; and yet Stocmar heard them 
with a strange thrill of pity, and Mrs. Morris grew pale as 
she listened to them. 

“Clara,” said Mrs. Morris, gravely, “there are circum- 
stances in our relations to each other which you will only 
learn when we have parted. I have committed them to 
writing for your own eye alone. They will explain the 
urgency of the step I am now taking, as much for your sake 
as for mine. When you have read and carefully pondered 
over that paper, you will be convinced that this separation 
is of necessity.” 

Clara bowed her head in assent, but did not speak. 

“You will also see, Clara,” resumed she, “that it is very 
far from likely the old relations between us will ever again 
be resumed. If we do meet again, — an event that may or 
may not happen, — it will be as some distant cousins, — some 
who have ties of kindred between them, and no more.” 

Clara nodded again, but still in silence. 

“You see, sir,” said Mrs. Morris, turning towards Stoc- 
mar, while her eyes flashed angrily, — “you see, sir, that I 
am handing over to your care a model of obedience, — a 


374 


ONE OF THEM. 


young lady who has no will save that of those in authority 
over her, — not one rebellious sentiment of affection or at- 
tachment in her nature.” 

“ And who will ever strive to preserve your good opinions, 
sir, by persevering in this wise course,” said Clara, with a 
modest courtesy. 

If any one could have read Mr. Stocmar’s heart at that 
moment, he would have detected no very benevolent feelings 
towards either mother or daughter, while he sincerely de- 
plored his own fate at being in such company. 

“Don’t you think, mamma,” said the girl, with an easy 
smile, “ that, considering how recently we have known this 
gentleman, we have been sufficiently explicit and candid 
before him, and that any pretence of emotion in his pres- 
ence would be most unbecoming? He will, I am sure, for- 
give us the omission. Won’t you, sir?” 

Stocmar smiled and bowed, and blushed and looked 
miserable. 

“ You have been very candid, at all events, Clara,” said 
Mrs. Morris; “and Mr. Stocmar — or I mistake him much 
— must have acquired a considerable insight into the nature 
of his charge. Sir William expects to see you at dinner 
to-day, Clara,” added she, in an easier tone. ^‘He hopes to 
be well enough to come to table ; and as it will be your last 
evening here — ” 

“So it will,” said the girl, quickly; “and I must fetch 
down Beethoven with me, and play his favorites for him 
once more.” 

Mrs. Morris raised her eyebrows with an expressive look 
at Stocmar, and led him from the room. Scarcely had the 
door closed, when the girl threw herself, half kneeling, on 
the sofa, and sobbed as if her very heart was breaking. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


VERY OUTSPOKEN ON THE WORLD AT LARGE. 

And there came a next morning to all this. Oh, these same 
next mornings of life ! — strange leaves in that book of our 
daily existence, now dark and black-lettered, now bright in 
all the glories of golden tracery! For so is it, each day is 
a fresh page to be written “with chalk or charcoal,’' as it 
may be. 

Two travelling-carriages took their way from Florence on 
that morning, — one for Bologna, with Mr. Stocmar and 
Clara; the other for Rome, with the Heathcotes, Captain 
Holmes having his place in the rumble. Old soldier that 
he was, he liked the open-air seat, where he could smoke his 
cigar and see the country. Of all those who journeyed in 
either, none could vie with him in the air of easy enjoyment 
that he wore ; and even the smart Swiss maid at his side, 
though she might have preferred a younger companion, was 
fain to own, in her own peculiar English, that he was full of 
little bounties (bontes) in her regard. And when they halted 
to bait, he was so amiable and full of attentions to every 
one, exerting the very smallest vocabulary to provide all that 
was needed ; never , abashed by failure or provoked by ridi- 
cule; always good-tempered, always gay. It was better 
than colchicum to Sir William to see the little fat man 
washing the salad himself at the fountain, surrounded by 
all the laughing damsels of the hostel, who jeered him on 
every stage of his performance ; and even May, whose eyes 
were red with crying after Clara, had to laugh at the disas- 
ters of his cookery and the blunders of his Italian. And 
then he gossiped about with landlords and postboys, till he 
knew of every one who had come or was coming ; what car- 
riages, full of Russian Princes, could not get forward for 


376 


ONE OF THEM. 


want of horses, and what vetturinos, full of English, had 
been robbed of everything. He had the latest intelligence 
about Garibaldi, and the names of the last six Sicilian 
Dukes shot by the King of Naples. Was he not up, too, in 
his John Murray, which he read whenever Mademoiselle 
Virginia was asleep, and sold out in retail at every change 
of post-horses? 

Is it not strange that this is exactly the sort of person 
one needs on a journey, and yet is only by the merest acci- 
dent to be chanced upon? We never forget the courier, 
nor the valet, nor the soubrette, but the really invaluable 
creature, — the man who learns the name of every village, 
the value of all coinage, the spot that yields good wine, the 
town where the peaches are fullest of flavor, or the roses 
richest in perfume ; we leave him to be picked up at hazard, 
if picked up at all. It is an unaccountable prejudice that 
makes the parasite unpopular. For who is it that relieves 
life of much of its asperities, — who is it that provides so 
unceasingly that our capon should be well roasted and our 
temper unruffled, — who, like him, to secure all the available 
advantages of the road, and, when disasters will occur, to 
make them food for laughter? 

How patient, how self-sacrificing, how deferential to 
caprices and indulgent to whims is the man whose daily 
dinner you pay for! If you would see humanity in holiday 
attire, look out for one like him. How blandly does he 
forgive the rascalities of your servants and the robberies 
of your tradesmen! No fretfulness about trifles disfigures 
the calm serenity of his features. He knows that if the 
travelling-carriage be thought heavy, it is only two leaders 
the more are required; if the wine be corked, it is but 
ordering another bottle. Look at life from his point of view, 
and it is surprising how little there is to complain of. It 
would be too much to say that there was not occasionally a 
little acting in all this catholic benevolence and universal 
satisfaction, but no more, perhaps, than the fervor of a 
lawyer for his client, — that nisi prius enthusiasm marked 
five guineas on the brief. 

The Captain understood his part like an artist; and 
through all the condescending forgiveness he bestowed on 


VERY OUTSPOKEN ON THE WORLD AT LARGE. 377 


the shortcomings of inns and innkeepers, he suffered, ever 
half imperceptibly, to peer out the habits of a man accus- 
tomed to the best of everything, who always had been sedu- 
lously served and admirably cared for. His indulgence 
was thus generosity, not ignorance, and all irritability in 
such a presence would stand rebuked at once. 

Sir William declared he had never seen his equal, — such 
temper, such tact, such resources in difficulty, such patience 
under all trials. May pronounced him charming. He 
could obtain something eatable in the veriest desolation, he 
could extract a laugh out of disasters that seemed to defy 
drollery; and, lastly, Mrs. Morris herself averred “that he 
was unlike every old Indian she had ever seen, for he 
seemed not to know what selfishness meant, — but so, indeed, 

‘ poor Penthony ’ had always described him.” And here she 
would wipe her eyes and turn away in silence. 

As they rolled along the road, many a little scheme was 
devised for detaining him at Rome, many a little plot laid 
for making him pass the carnival with them. Little knew 
they the while, how, seated in the rumble close behind, he 
too revolved the self-same thoughts, asking himself by what 
means he could secure so pleasant a harbor of refuge. Will 
it not occasionally occur in life that some of those successes 
on which we pride ourselves have been in a measure pre- 
pared by others, and that the adversary has helped us to 
win the game we are so vain of having scored? 

“Well, how do you like them?” said Mrs. Morris, as she 
smoked her cigarette at the end of the little garden at 
Viterbo, after Sir William and May had said good-night, 
— “how do you like them, pa?” 

“They ’re wonderful, — they ’re wonderful ! ” said the Cap- 
tain, puffing his weed. “It’s a long time since I met any- 
thing so fresh as that old Baronet.” 

“And with all that,” said she, “his great vanity is to 
think he knows ‘ the world. ’ ” 

“So he may, my dear. I can only say it is n’t your world 
nor mine” replied he, laughing. 

“And yet there is a class in which such men as he are the 
clever ones, where their remarks are listened to and their 
observations treasured, and where old ladies in turbans 


378 


ONE OF THEM. 


and bird-of-paradise feathers pronounce them ‘ such well- 
informed men.’ Isn’t that the phrase, pa?” 

“Yes, that ’s the phrase. An old article of the ‘ Quarterly * 
committed to memory, some of Dr. Somebody’s predic- 
tions about the end of the world, and Solomon’s proverbs 
done into modern English, make a very well-informed 
man.” 

“And a most insupportable bore, besides. After all, 
papa,” said she, “ it is in the landlocked creeks, the little 
waveless bays, that one must seek his anchorage, and not in 
the breezy roadsteads nor the open ocean. I’ve thought 
over the matter a good deal lately, and I believe that to be 
the wise choice.” 

‘‘You are right. Loo,” said he; “ease is the great 
thing, — ease and security ! What settlement can he 
make ? ” 

“A small one; just enough to live on. The son would be 
better in that respect, but then I shouldn’t like it; and, 
besides, he would live as long as myself, — longer, perhaps, 
— and you know one likes to have a look forward, though it 
be ever so far away off.” 

‘ ‘ V ery true, — very true, ” said he, with a mild sigh. ‘ ‘ And 
this Miss Leslie,” added he, after a while; “she ’ll marry, 
I suppose ? ” 

“Oh yes; her fortune will still be considerable, — at 
least, I hope so. That man Trover has taken all the papers 
away with him, but he ’ll turn up some day or other. At 
all events, there will be quite enough to get her a Roman 
Count or a Sicilian Duke ; and as they are usually sent to 
the galleys or shot in a few years, the endurance is not pro- 
longed. These are Trover’s cigars, ain’t they? I know 
them well.” 

“Yes; it was your friend Stocmar filled my case 
yesterday.” 

“Another of the would-be shrewd ones!” said she, 
laughing. 

“I did n’t fancy him much,” said he. 

“Nor I, either; he is such a snob. Now, one can’t live 
with a snob, though one may dine with him, smoke, fiirt, 
ride, and chat with him. Is it not so?” 


VERY OUTSPOKEN ON THE WORLD AT LARGE. 379 

“Perfectly true.” 

“Sir William is not snobbish. It is his one redeeming 
quality.” 

“I see that. I remarked it the first day we met.” 

“Oh dear! oh dear!” sighed she, drearily, “what a tame, 
poor, commonplace thing life becomes when it is reduced 
to English cookery for health, and respectability for morals ! 
I could marry Stocmar if I pleased, papa.” 

“Of course you could.” 

“Or O’Shea, — ‘the O’Shea,’” said she, with a laugh. 
“How droll to be the ‘ she ’ of that species! I could have 
him also.” 

“Not also, but either, dear,” said the Captain, correcting 
her. 

“I meant that, papa,” laughed she in, “though, perhaps 
— perhaps poor Mr. Ogden mightn’t see that your objection 
was called for.” And then they both laughed once more at 
the droll conceit. “We are to be married on some day 
before Lent,” said she, after a pause. “I must positively 
get an almanac, papa, or I shall make confusion in my 
dates.” 

“The Lent begins late this year,” remarked he. 

“Does it? So much the better, for there is much to be 
thought of. I trust to you for the settlements, papa. You 
will have to be inexorable on every stage of the proceed- 
ings ; and as for we, I know nothing of business, — never 
did, never could.” 

“But that is not exactly the character you have figured in 
here of late.” 

“Oh, papa dear,” cried she, “do you imagine, if reason 
or judgment were to be invoked, that Sir William would 
ever marry me ? Is it not because he is blind to every in- 
consistency and every contradiction that the poor man has 
decided on this step ? ” 

“Where do you mean to live? Have you any plans on 
that score ? ” 

“None, except where there are fewest English; the small- 
est possible population of red whiskers and red petticoats, 
and the least admixture of bad tongues and Balmoral boots. 
If we cannot find such a spot, then a city, — a large city. 


880 


ONE OF THEM. 


where people have too many resources to be obliged to amuse 
themselves with scandal.” 

“That’s true; I have always remarked that where the 
markets were good, and fish especially abundant, people 
were less censorious. In small localities, where one eats 
kid every day, the tendency to tear your neighbor becomes 
irresistible. I ’m convinced that the bad tongue of boarding- 
house people may be ascribed to the bad diet.” 

“Perfectly true, papa; and when you dine with us, you 
shall have no excuse for malevolence. There,” said she, 
throwing away the end of her cigar, “I can’t afford to light 
another one this evening, I have got so few of those deli- 
cious Cubans. Oh dear,” sighed she, “what a strange des- 
tiny is mine ! Whenever I enter the marriage state, it must 
always be with a connection where there are no small vices, 
and I fond of them ! ” 

And so saying, she drew her shawl around her, and 
strolled lazily towards the house, while the Captain, select- 
ing another cheroot, sat himself down in a snug spot in the 
arbor to muse, and meditate, and moralize after his fashion. 
Had any one been there to mark him as he gazed upwards 
at the starry sky, he might readily have deemed him one lost 
in heavenly contemplation, deep in that speculative wisdom 
that leaves the frontier of this narrow life far, far behind, 
and soars to realms nobler, vaster, grander. But not so 
were his thoughts ; they were earthy of the earthiest, craft 
and subtlety crossed and recrossed them, and in all their 
complex web not one chord was to be found which could 
vibrate with an honest wish or a generous aspiration. 
There was not, nevertheless, a ruddier complexion, a 
brighter eye, a merrier voice, or a better digestion than his 
in Christendom. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


FROM CLARA. 

It was just as Alfred Layton stepped into the boat to row 
out to the “Asia,” bound for New York, that a letter from 
Clara was placed in his hands. He read it as they rowed 
along, — read it twice, thrice over. It was a strange letter — 
at least, he thought so — from one so very young. There 
was a tone of frankness almost sisterly, but there was, in 
alluding to the happy past, a something of tenderness half 
shadowed forth that thrilled strangely through his heart. 
How she seemed to love those lessons he had once thought 
she felt to be mere tasks ! How many words he had uttered 
at random, — words of praise or blame, as it might be ; she 
had treasured all up, just as she had hoarded the flowers he 
had given her. What a wondrous sensation it is to feel 
that a chance expression we have used, a few stray words, 
have been stored up as precious memories! Is there any 
flattery like it ? What an ecstasy to feel that we could im- 
part value to the veriest commonplace, and, without an 
effort, without even a will, sit enthroned within some other 
heart ! 

What wisdom there was in that old fable of the husband- 
man, who bequeathed the treasure to his sons to be discov- 
ered by carefully turning over the soil of their land, delving 
and digging it industriously! How applicable is the lesson 
it teaches to what goes on in our daily lives, where, ever in 
search of one form of wealth, our labors lead us to discover 
some other of which we knew nothing ! Little had Alfred 
Layton ever suspected that, while seeking to gain May’s 
affection, he was winning another heart; little knew he that 
in that atmosphere of love his deep devotion made, she — 
scarcely more than a child — lived and breathed, mingling 


382 


ONE OF THEM. 


thoughts of him through all the efforts of her mind, till he 
became the mainspring of every ambition that possessed her. 
And now he knew it all. Yes, she confessed, as one never 
again fated to meet him, that she loved him. “If,” wrote 
she, ‘‘ it is inexpressible relief to me to own this, I can do 
so wdth less shame that I ask no return of affection; I give 
you my heart, as I give that which has no value, save that I 
feel it is with ijou^ to go along with you through all the 
straits and difficulties of your life, to nourish hope for your 
success and sorrow for your failure, but never to meet you 
more. . . . Nor,” said she, in another place, “do I disguise 
from myself the danger of this confession. They say it is 
man’s nature to despise the gift which comes unasked, — the 
unsought heart is but an undesired realm. Be it so. So 
long as the thought fills me that you are its lord, so long as 
to myself I whisper vows of loyalty, I am not worthless in 
my own esteem. I can say, ‘ He would like this; he would 
praise me for that; some word of good cheer would aid me 
here; how joyously he would greet me as I reached this 
goal ! ’ ‘ Bravely borne, dear Clara! ’ would requite me for a 
cruel sacrifice. You are too generous to deny me this much, 
and I ask no more. None of us can be the worse of good 
wishes, none be less fortunate that daily blessings are 
entreated for us. Mine go with you everywhere and 
always.” 

These lines, read and re-read so often, weighed heavily 
on Layton’s heart; and she who wrote them was never for 
an instant from his thoughts. At first, sorrow and a sense 
of self-reproach were his only sentiments; but gradually 
another feeling supervened. There is not anything which 
supplies to the heart the want of being cared for. There is 
that companionship in being loved, without which life is the 
dreariest of all solitudes. As we are obliged to refer all our 
actions to a standard of right and wrong, so by a like rule 
all our emotions must be brought before another court, — 
the heart that loves us ; and he who has not this appeal is 
a wretched outlaw! This Layton now began to feel, and 
every day strengthened the conviction. The last few lines 
of the letter, too, gave an unspeakable interest to the whole. 
They ran thus : — 


FROM CLARA. 


383 


“I know not what change has come over my life, or is to 
come, but I am to be separated from my mother, intrusted 
to a guardian I have never seen till now, and sent* I know 
not whither. All that I am told is that our narrow fortune 
requires I should make an effort for my own support. I 
am grateful to the adversity that snatches me from a life 
of thought to one of labor. The weariness of work will be 
far easier to bear than the repinings of indolence. Self- 
reproach will be less poignant, too, when not associated 
with self-indulgence ; and, better than all, a thousand times 
better, I shall feel in my toil some similitude to him whom 
I love, — feel, when my tired brain seeks rest, some unseen 
thread links my weariness to his, and blends our thoughts 
together in our dreams, fellow-laborers at least in life, if 
not lovers ! ” 

When he had read thus far, and was still contemplating 
the lines, a small slip, carefully sealed in two places, fell 
from the letter. It was inscribed “My Secret.” Alfred 
tore it open eagerly. The contents were very brief, and 
ran thus : — 

“She whom I had believed to be my mother is not so. 
She is nothing to me. I am an orphan. I know nothing of 
those belonging to me, nor of myself, any more than that 
my name is not^ ‘ Clara Morris. ’ ” 

Layton’s first impulse, as he read, was to exclaim, “Thank 
God, the dear child has no tie to this woman ! ” The 
thought of her being her daughter was maddening. And . 
then arose the question to his mind, by what link had they 
been united hitherto? Mrs. Morris had been ever to him a 
mysterious personage, for whom he had invented number- 
less histories, not always to her advantage. But why or 
through what circumstances this girl had been associated 
with her fortunes, was a knot he could find no clew to. 
There arose, besides, another question, why should this con- 
nection now cease, bj^ what change in condition were they 
to be separated, and was the separation to be complete and 
final ? Clara ought to have told him more ; she should have 
been more explicit. It was unfair to leave him with an 
unsolved difficulty which a few words might have set clear. 
He was half angry with her for the torture of this uncer- 


884 


ONE OF THEM. 


tainty, and yet — let us own it — in his secret heart he 
hugged this mystery as a new interest that attached him to 
life. Let a man have ever so little of the gambler in his 
nature, — and we have never pictured Layton as amongst 
that prudent category, — and there will be still a tendency to 
weigh the eventualities of life, as chances inclining now to 
this side, now to that. “I was lucky in that affair,” “I 
was unfortunate there,” are expressions occasionally heard 
from those who have never played a card or touched a dice- 
box. And where does this same element play such a part as 
when a cloud of doubt and obscurity involves the fate of one 
we love? 

For the first few days of the voyage Layton thought of 
nothing but Clara and her history, till his mind grew actually 
•confused with conflicting guesses about her. “ I must tell 
Quackinboss everything. I must ask his aid to read this 
mystery, or it will drive me mad,” said he, at last. “ He has 
seen her, too, and liked her.” She was the one solitary fig- 
ure he had met with at the Villa which seemed to have made 
n deep impression upon him ; and over and over again the 
American had alluded to the “ ‘ little gal’ with the long eye- 
lashes, who sang so sweetly.” 

It was not very easy to catch the Colonel in an unoccupied 
moment. Ever since the voyage began he was full of engage- 
ments. He was an old Transatlantic voyager, deep in all the 
arts and appliances by which such journeys are rendered 
agreeable. Such men turn up everywhere. On the Cunard 
line they organize the whist-parties, the polka on the poop- 
deck, the sweepstakes on the ship’s log, and the cod-fishing 
on the banks. On the overland route it is they who direct 
where tents are to be pitched, kids roasted, and Arabs horse- 
whipped. By a sort of common accord a degree of command 
is conceded to them, and their authority is admitted without 
dispute. Now and then a rival will contest the crown, and 
by his party divide the state ; but the community is large 
•enough for such schism, which, after all, is rarely a serious 
one. The Pretender, in the present case, had come on board 
by the small vessel which took the pilot away, — a circumstance 
not without suspicion, and, of course, certain of obtaining its 
share of disparaging comments, not the less that the gentle- 


FROM CLARA. 


385 


man’s pretensions were considerable, and his manners impos- 
ing. In fact, to use a vulgarism very expressive of the man, 

he took on” immensely. He was very indignant at not 
finding his servant expecting him, and actually out of him- 
self on discovering that a whole stateroom had not been en- 
gaged for his accommodation. With all these disappointing 
circumstances, it was curious enough how soon he reconciled 
himself to his condition, submitting with great good-humor 
to all the privations of ordinary mortals ; and when, on the 
third or fourth day of the voyage, he deigned to say that he 
had drunk worse Madeira, and that the clam soup was really 
worthy of his approval, his popularity was at once assured. 
It was really pleasant to witness such condescension, and so, 
indeed, every one seemed to feel it. All but one, and that 
one was Quackinboss, who, from the first moment, had con- 
ceived a strong dislike against the new arrival, a sentiment 
he took no pains to conceal or disguise. 

“ He ’s too p’lite, — he ’s too civil by half, sir, — especially 
with the women folk,” said Quackinboss ; “ they ain’t whole- 
some when they are so tarnation sweet. As Senator Byles 
says, ‘ Bunkum won’t make pie-crust, though it ’ll serve to 
butter a man up.’ Them’s my own sentiments too, sir, and‘ 
I don’t like that stranger.” 

“ What can it signify to you. Colonel?” said Layton. 
“ Why need you trouble your head about who or what he 
is? ” 

“ I ’ll be bound he ’s one of them as pays his debts with the 
topsail sheet, sir. He ’s run. I ’m as sartain o’ that fact as 
if I seen it. Whenever I see a party as won’t play whist 
under five-guinea points, or drink anything cheaper than 
Moet at four dollars a bottle, I say look arter that chap. 
Shaver, and you ’ll see it ’s another man’s money pays for 
him.” 

“ But, after all,” remonstrated Layton, “ surely you have 
nothing to do with him ? ” 

“Well, sir, I’m not downright convinced on that score. 
He ’s a-come from Florence ; he knows all about the Heath- 
cotes and Mrs. Morris, and the other folk there ; and he has 
cither swindled them^ or they ’ve been a-roguing some others. 

25 


386 


ONE OF THEM. 


That ’s my platform, sir, and I ’ll not change one plank of 
it.” 

“ Come, come,” said Layton, laughingly, “ for the first 
time in your life you have suffered a prejudice to override 
your shrewd good sense. The man is a snob, and no more.” 

“ Well, sir, I ’d like to ask, could you say worse of him? 
Ain’t a snob a fellow as wants to be taken for better bred 
or richer or cleverer or more influential than he really is? 
Ain’t he a cheat? Ain’t he one as says, ‘I ain’t like that 
poor publican yonder, I ’m another guess sort of crittur, and 
sit in quite another sort of place?’ Jest now, picture to 
your own mind how pleasant the world would be if one- 
fourth, or even one-tenth, of its inhabitants was fellows of 
that stamp ! ” 

It was only after two or three turns on the deck that Lay- 
ton could subdue the Colonel’s indignation sufficiently to 
make him listen to him with calm and attention. With a 
very brief preamble he read Clara’s letter for him, conclud- 
ing all with the few lines inscribed “My Secret.” “It is 
about this I want your advice, dear friend,” said he. “ Tell 
me frankly what you think of it all.” 

Quackinboss was always pleased when asked his advice 
upon matters which at first blush might seem out of the 
range of his usual experiences. It seemed such a tribute to 
his general knowledge of life, that it was a very graceful 
species of flattery, so that he was really delighted by this 
proof of Layton’s confidence in his acuteness and his delicacy, 
and in the exact proportion of the satisfaction he felt was he 
disposed to be diffuse and long-winded. 

“ This ain’t an easy case, sir,” began he ; “ this ain’t one 
of those measures where a man may say, ‘ There ’s the right 
and there ’s the wrong of it ; ’ and it takes a man like Shaver 
Quackinboss — a man as has seen snakes with all manner o’ 
spots on ’em — to know what’s best to be done.” 

“Sol thought,” mildly broke in Layton, — “ so I thought.” 

“ There ’s chaps in this world,” continued he, “ never sees 
a difficulty nowhere ; they ’d whittle a hickory stick with the 
same blade as a piece of larch timber, sir ; ay, and worse, 
too, never know how they gapped their knife for the doin’ it ! 
You ’d not believe it, perhaps, but the wiliest cove ever I seen 


PROM CLARA. 


387 


in life was an old chief of the Mandans, Ai-ha-ha-tha, and 
his rule was, when you ’re on a trail, track it step by step j 
never take short cuts. Let us 'read the girl’s letter again.” 
And he did so carefully, painstakingly, folding it up after- 
wards with slow deliberation, while he reflected over the 
contents. 

“I’m a-thinkin’,” said he, at last, — “I’m a-thinkin’ how 
we might utilize that stranger there, the fellow as is come 
from Florence, and who may possibly have heard some- 
thing of this girl’s history. He don’t take to me; nor, 
for the matter o’ that, do I to him. But that don’t signify ; 
there ’s one platform brings all manner of folk together, — 
it’s the great leveller in this world, — Play. Ay, sir, your 
English lord has no objection to even Uncle Sam’s dollars, 
though he ’d be riled con-siderable if you asked him to sit 
down to meals with him. I ’ll jest let this crittur plunder 
me a bit; I’ll flatter him with the notion that he’s too 
sharp and too spry for the Yankee. He ’s always goin’ 
about asking every one, ‘ Can’t they make a game o’ brag?’ 
Well, I ’ll go in, sir. He shall have his game, and /’ll have 
mine.” 

Layton did not certainly feel much confidence in the plan of 
campaign thus struck out ; but seeing the pleasure Quackin- 
boss felt in the display of his acuteness, he offered no objec- 
tion to the project. 

“ Yes, sir,” continued Quackinboss, as though reflecting 
aloud, “ once these sort of critturs think a man a flat, they 
let out all about how sharp they are themselves ; they can’t 
help it ; it ’s part of their shallow natur’ to be boastful. Let 
us see, now, what it is we want to find out : first of all, the 
widow, who she is and whence she came ; then, how she 
chanced to have the gal with her, and who the gal herself 
is, where she was raised, and by whom ; and, last of all, 
what is ’t they done with her, how they’ve fixed her. Ay, 
sir,” mused he, after a pause, “ as Senator Byles says, ‘ if 
/ don’t draw the badger, I ’d beg the honorable gentleman 
to b’lieve that his own claws ain’t sharp enough to do it ! ’ 
There ’s the very crittur himself, now, a-smokin’,” cried he ; 
“I’ll jest go and ask him for a weed.” And, so saying, 
Quackinboss crossed the deck and joined the stranger. 


CHAPTER XL. 


QUACKINBOSSIANA. 

On the morning on which the great steamer glided within 
the tranquil waters of Long Island, Quackinboss appeared 
at Layton’s berth, to announce the fact, as well as report 
progress with the stranger. “I was right, sir,” said he; 
“he’s been and burnt his fingers on ’Change; that’s the 
reason he’s here. The crittur was in the share-market, 
and got his soup too hot ! You Britishers seem to have 
the bright notion that, when you’ve been done at home, 
you ’ll be quite sharp enough to do us here, and so, when- 
ever you make a grand smash in Leadenhall Street, it ’s 
only coming over to Broadway! Well, now, sir, that’s 
con-siderable of a mistake ; we understand smashing too, — 
ay, and better than folk in the old country. Look you here, 
sir ; if I mean to lose my ship on the banks, or in an 
ice-drift, or any other way, I don’t go and have her built 
of strong oak plank and well-seasoned timber, copper- 
fastened, and the rest of it ; but I run her up with light 
pine, and cheap fixin’s everywhere. She not only goes to 
pieces the quicker, but there ain’t none of her found to tell 
where it happened, and how. That ’s how it comes we foun- 
der, and there ’s no noise made about it ; while one of your 
chaps goes bumpin’ on the rocks for weeks, with fellows up 
in the riggin’, and life-boats takin’ ’em off, and such-like, till 
the town talks of nothing else, and all the newspapers are 
filled with pathetic incidents, so that the very fellows that 
calked her seams or wove her canvas are held up to public 
reprobation. That ’s how you do it, sir, and that ’s where 
you ’re wrong. When a man builds a cardhouse, he don’t 
want iron fastenings. I’ve explained all to that crittur 
there, and he seems to take it in wonderful.” 

“ Who is he — what is he? ” asked La3'ton. 


QUACKLNBOSSIANA. 


389 


“His name’s Trover; firm, Trover, Twist, and Co., 
Frankfort and Florence, bankers, general merchants, rag 
exporters, commission agents, doing a bit in the picture line 
and marble for the American market, and sole agents for the 
sale of Huxley’s tonic balsam. That’s how he is,” said the 
Colonel, reading the description from his note-book. 

“ I never heard of him before.” 

“ He knows you, though, — knew you the moment he came 
aboard ; said you was tutor to a lord in Italy, and that he 
cashed you circular notes on Stanbridge and Sawley. These 
fellows forget nobody.” 

“ What does he know of the Heathcotes? ” 

“ Pretty nigh everything. He knows that the old Baronet 
would be for makin’ a fortune out of his ward’s money, and 
has gone and lost a good slice of it, and that the widow has 
been doin’ a bit of business in the share-market, in the same 
profitable fashion, — not but she’s a rare wide-awake ’un, 
and sees into the ‘ exchanges ’ clear enough. As to the gal, 
he thinks she sold her — ” 

“ Sold her ! What do you mean? ” cried Layton, in a voice 
of horror. 

“Jest this, that one of those theatrical fellows as buys 
singing-people, and gets ’em taught, — it ’s all piping-bullfinch 
work with ’em, — has been and taken her away ; most prob- 
ably cheap, too, for Trover said she wasn’t nowise a rare 
article ; she had a will of her own, and was as likely to say 
‘ I won’t,’ as ‘ I will.’ ” 

“Good heavens! And are things like this suffered, — 
are they endured in the age we live in ? ” 

“Yes, sir. You’ve got all your British sympathies very 
full about negroes and ‘ Uncle Tom’s Cabin,’ you ’re wonder- 
ful strong about slavery and our tyrants down South, and 
you ’ve something like fifty thousand born ladies, called 
governesses, treated worse than housemaids, and some ten 
thousand others condemned to what I won’t speak of, that 
they may amuse you in your theatres. I can tell you, sir, 
that the Legrees that walk St. James’s Street and Picca- 
dilly are jest as black-hearted as the fellows in Georgia or 
Alabama, though they carry gold-headed walking-sticks in- 
stead of cow-hides.” 


390 


ONE OF THEM. 


“But sold her! ” reiterated Layton. “ Do you mean to 
say that Clara has been given over to one of these people 
to prepare her for the stage ? ’’ 

“ Yes, sir; he says his name ’s Stocmar, — a real gentle- 
man, he calls him, with a house at Brompton, and a small 
yacht at Cowes. They ’ve rather good notions about enjoy- 
ing themselves, these theatre fellows. They get a very good 
footing in West End life, too, by supplying countesses to 
the nobility.” 

“No, no!” cried Layton, angrily; “you carry your 
prejudices against birth and class beyond reason and justice 
too.” 

“Well, I suspect not, sir,” said Quackinboss, slowly. 
“ Not to say that I was n’t revilin’, but rather a-praisin’ ’em, 
for the supply of so much beauty to the best face-market in 
all Europe. If I were to say what ’s the finest prerogatives 
of one of your lords, I know which I ’d name, sir, and it 
would n’t be wearin’ a blue ribbon, and sittin’ on a carved 
oak bench in what you call the Upper House of Parlia- 
ment.” 

“ But Clara — what of Clara?” cried Layton, impatiently. 

“ He suspects that she’s at Milan, a sort of female college 
they have there, where they take degrees in singin’ and 
dancin’. All I hope is that the poor child won’t learn any 
of their confounded lazy Italian notions. There ’s no people 
can prosper, sir, when their philosophy consists in Come si 
fa ? Come si fa ? means it ’s no use to work, it ’s no good 
to strive ; the only thing to do in life is to lie down in the 
shade and suck oranges. That ’s the real reason they like 
Popery, sir, because they can even go to heaven without 
trouble, by paying another man to do the prayin’ for ’em. 
It ain’t much trouble to hire a saint, when it only costs light- 
ing a candle to him. And to tell me that’s a nation wants 
liberty and free institutions! No man wants liberty, sir, 
that won’t work for his bread ; no man really cares for 
freedom till he’s ready to earn his livin’, for this good 
reason, that the love of liberty must grow out of personal 
independence, as you’ll see, sir, when you take a walk 
yonder.” And he pointed to the tall steeples of New York 
as he spoke. But Layton cared little for the discussion of 


QUACKINBOSSIANA. 


391 


such a theme ; his thoughts had another and a very different 
direction. 

“ Poor Clara ! ” muttered he. “ How is she to be rescued 
from such a destiny ? ” 

“/’d say by the energy and determination of the man who 
cares for her,” said Quackinboss, boldly. '''‘Come si fa? 
won’t save her, that’s certain.” 

“Can you learn anything of the poor child’s history from 
this man, or does he know it?” 

“Well, sir,” drawled out the Colonel, “that ain’t so easy 
to say. Whether a man has a partic’lar piece of knowledge 
in his head, or whether a quartz rock has a streak of gold 
inside of it, is things only to be learned in the one way, — 
by hammering, — ay, sir, by hammering! Now, it strikes 
me this Trover don’t like hammering; first of all, the sight 
of you here has made him suspicious — ” 

“Not impossible is it that he may have seen you also, 
Colonel,” broke in Layton. 

“Well, sir,” said the other, drawing himself proudly up, 
•‘and if he had, what of it? You don’t fancy that we are 
like the Britishers? You don’t imagine that when we 
appear in Eu-rope that every one turns round and whispers, 
‘ That’s a gentleman from the United States ’? No, sir, it 
is the remarkable gift of our people to be cosmopolite. We 
pass for Russian, French, Spanish, or Italian, jest as we 
like, not from our skill in language, which we do not all 
possess, so much as a certain easy imitation of the nat-ive 
that comes nat’ral to us. Even our Western people, sir, 
with very remarkable features of their own, have this prop- 
erty ; and you may put a man from Kentucky down on the 
Boulevard de Gand to-morrow, and no one will be able 
to say he warn’t a born Frenchman!” 

“I certainly have not made that observation hitherto,” 
said Layton, dryly. 

“Possibly not, sir, because your national pride is offended 
by our never imitating you ! No, sir, we never do that! ” 

“But won’t you own that you might find as worthy models 
in England as in France or Italy ? ” 

“Not for us, sir, — not for us. Besides, we find our- 
selves at home on the Continent; we don’t with you. The 


392 


ONE OF THEM. 


Frenchman is never taxing us with every little peculiarity 
of accent or diction; he ’s not always criticising our ways 
where they differ from his own. Now, your people do, and, 
do what we may, sir, they will look on us as what the 
Chinese call ‘ second chop.’ Now, to my thinking, we are 
first chop, sir, and you are the tea after second watering.” 

They were now rapidly approaching the only territory in 
which an unpleasant feeling was possible between them. 
Each knew and felt this, and yet, with a sort of national 
stubbornness, neither liked to be the one to recede first. 
As for Layton, bound as he was by a debt of deep gratitude 
to the American, he chafed under the thought of sacrificing 
even a particle of his country’s honor to the accident of his 
own condition, and with a burning cheek and flashing eye he 
began, — 

“There can be no discussion on the matter. Between 
England and America there can no more be a question as to 
supremacy — ” 

“There, don’t say it; stop there,” said Quackinboss, 
mildly. “Don’t let us get warm about it. I may like to 
sit in a rockin’-chair and smoke my weed in the parlor; 
you may prefer to read the ‘ Times ’ at the drawing-room 
fire ; but if we both agree to go out into the street together, 
sir, we can whip all cre-ation.” 

And he seized Layton’s hand, and wrung it with an 
honest warmth that there was no mistaking. 

“And now as to this Mr. Trover,” said Layton, after a 
few minutes. “Are we likely to learn anything from 
him ? ” 

^‘Well, sir,” said the Colonel, lazily, “I’m on his track, 
and I know his footmarks so well now that I ’ll be sure to 
detect him if I see him again. He ’s a-goin’ South, and so 
are we. He’s a-looking out for land; that’s exactly what 
we ’re arter! ” 

“You have dropped no hint about our lecturing scheme?” 
asked Layton, eagerly. 

“I rayther think not, sir,” said the other, half indignant 
at the bare suspicion. “We ’re two gentlemen on the search 
after a good location and a lively water-power. We ’ve jest 
heard of one down West, and there ’s the whole cargo as per 


QUACKINBOSSIANA. 


893 


invoice.’’ And he gave a knowing wink and look of mingled 
drollery and cunning. 

“You are evidently of opinion that this man could be of 
use to us ? ” said Layton, who was well aware how fond the 
American was of acting with a certain mystery, and who 
therefore cautiously abstained from any rash assault upon 
his confidence. 

Yes, sir, that s wy ticket 5 but I mean to take my own 
time to lay the bill on the table. But here comes the small 
steamers and the boats for the mails. Listen to that bugle, 
Britisher. That air is worth all Mozart. Yes, sir,” s^id 
he proudly, as he hummed, — 

There ’s not a man beneath the moon. 

Nor lives in any land he 

That hasn’t heard the pleasant tune 
Of Yankee doodle dandy ! 

“ In coolin’ drinks, and clipper ships. 

The Yankee has the way shown ! 

On land and sea ’t is he that whips 
Old Bull and all cre-ation.” 

Quackinboss gradually dropped his voice, till at the 
concluding line the words sank into an undistinguishable 
murmur; for now, as it were, on the threshold of his own 
door, he felt all the claim of courtesy to the stranger. Still 
it was not possible for him to repress the proud delight he 
felt in the signs of wealth and prosperity around him. 

“There,” cried he, with enthusiasm, “there ain’t a land 
in the universe — that ’s worth calling a land — has n’t a flag 
flying yonder! There’s every color of bunting, from Lap- 
land to Shanghai, afloat in them waters, sir; and yet you ’ll 
not have to go back two hundred years, and where you see 
the smoke risin’ from ten thousand human dwellin’s there 
was n’t one hearth nor one home! The black pine and the 
hemlock grew down those grassy slopes where you see them 
gardens, and the red glare of the Indian’s fire shone out 
where the lighthouse now points to safety and welcome! 
It ain’t a despicable race as has done all that! If that be 
not the work of a great people, I ’d like to hear what is ! 

He next pointed out to Layton the various objects of inter-^ 


394 


ONE OF THEM. 


est as they presented themselves to view, commenting on the 
very different impressions such a scene of human energy 
and activity is like to produce than those lands of Southern 
Europe from which they had lately come. “You T1 never 
hear Come si fa? here, sir,” said he, proudly. “If a man 
can’t fix a thing aright, he ’ll not wring his hands and sit 
down to cry over it, but he ’ll go home to think of it at his 
meals, and as he lies awake o’ nights ; and he ’ll ask himself 
again and again, ‘ If there be a way o’ doin’ this, why can’t 
I find it out as well as another? ’ ” 

It was the Colonel’s belief that out of the principle of 
equality sprang an immense amount of that energy which 
develops itself in inventive ability; and he dilated on this 
theory for some time, endeavoring to show that the subdivi- 
sion of ranks in the Old World tended largely to repress 
the enterprising spirit which leads men into paths previ- 
ously untrodden. “That you’ll see, sir, when you come to 
mix with our people. And now, a word of advice to you 
before you begin.” 

He drew his arm within Layton’s as he said this, and led 
him two or three turns on the deck in silence. The subject 
was in some sort a delicate one, and he did not well see 
how to open it without a certain risk of offending. “ Here ’s 
how it is,” said he at last. “Our folk is n’t your folk be- 
cause they speak the same language. In your country, your 
station or condition, or whatever you like to call it, answers 
for you, and the individual man merges into the class he 
belongs to. Not so here. We don’t care a red cent about 
your rank, but we want to know about you yourself! Now, 
you strangers mistake all that feeling, and call it imperti- 
nence and curiosity, and such-like; but it ain’t anything of 
the kind! No, sir. It simply means what sort of knowl- 
edge, what art or science or labor, can you contribute to the 
common stock? Are you a-come amongst us to make us 
wiser or richer or thriftier or godlier; or are you just a 
loafer, — a mere loafer? My asking you on a rail-car 
whence you come and where you ’re a-goin’ is no more im- 
pertinence than my inquirin’ at a store whether they have 
got this article or that ! I want to know whether you and I, 
as we journey together, can profit each other; whether either 


QUACKTNBOSSIANA. 


395 


of us may n*t have something the other has never heard 
afore. He canH have travelled very far in life who has n’t 
picked up many an improvin’ thing from men he did n’t 
know the names on, ay, and learned many a sound lesson, 
besides, of patience, or contentment, forgiveness, and the 
like; and all that ain’t so easy if people won’t be sociable 
together ! ” 

Layton nodded a sort of assent; and Quackinboss con- 
tinued, in the same strain, to point out peculiarities to be 
observed, and tastes to be consulted, especially with refer- 
ence to the national tendency to invite to “liquor,” which 
he assured Layton by no means required a sense of thirst on 
his part to accede to. “You ain’t always charmed when 
you say you are, in French, sir; and the same spirit of 
politeness should lead you to accept a brandy-smash without 
needing it, or even to drink off a cocktail when you ain’t 
dry. After all,” said he, drawing a long breath, like one 
summing up the pith of a discourse, “if you’re a-goin’ to 
pick holes in Yankee coats, to see all manner of things to 
criticise, condeipn, and sneer at, if you ’re satisfied to de- 
scribe a people by a few peculiarities which are not pleasin’ 
to you, go ahead and abuse us; but if you ’ll accept honest 
hospitality, though offered in a way that ’s new and strange 
to you, — if you ’ll believe in true worth and genuine loyalty 
of character, even though its possessor talk somewhat 
through the nose, — then, sir, I say, there ain’t no fear that 
America will disappoint you, or that you ’ll be ill-treated 
by Americans.” With this speech he turned away to look 
after his baggage and get ready to go ashore. 


CHAPTER XLI. 


QUACKINBOSS AT HOME. 

Though Quackinboss understood thoroughly well that it 
devolved upon him to do the honors of his country to the 
“ Britisher/' he felt that, in honest fairness, the stranger 
ought to be free to form his impressions, without the 
bias that would ensue from personal attentions, while he 
also believed that American institutions and habits stood 
in need of no peculiar favor towards them to assert their 
own superiority. 

“Don’t be on the look-out, sir, for Eu-ropean graces,” he 
would say, “ in this country, for the men that have most of 
’em ain’t our best people; and don’t mistake the eagerness 
with which everybody will press you to admire America for 
any slight towards the old country. We all like her, sir; 
and we’d like her better if she wasn’t so fond of saying 
she ’s ashamed of us.” 

These were the sort of warnings and counsels he would 
drop as he guided Layton about through the city, pointing 
out whatever he deemed most worthy of curiosity, or what- 
ever he conceived might illustrate the national character. 
It was chiefly on the wealth of the people, their untiring 
industry, and the energy with which they applied themselves 
to money-getting, that he laid stress ; and he did this with 
a degree of insistence that betrayed an uneasy conscious- 
ness of how little sympathy such traits meet with from the 
passing traveller. 

“Mayhap, sir, you ’d rather see ’em loafing? ” said he one 
day in a moment of impatience, as Layton half confessed 
that he ’d like to meet some of the men of leisure. “Well, 
you ’ll have to look ’em up elsewhere, I expect. I ’ll have to 
take you a run down South for that sort of cattle, — and 


QUACKINBOSS AT HOME. 


397 


that what I mean to do. Before you go before our 
people, sir, as a lecturer, you T1 have to study ’em a little, 
that ’s a fact! When you come to know ’em, you ’ll see that 
it ’s a folk won’t be put off with chaff when they want buck- 
wheat; and that ’s jest what your Eu-ropeans think to do. I 
will take a trip to the Falls first; I ’d like to show you that 
water-power. We start away on Monday next.” 

Layton was not sorry to leave New York. The sight of 
that ever busy multitude, that buzzing hive of restless bees, 
was only addling to one who never regarded wealth save as 
a stage to something farther off. He was well aware how 
rash it would be to pronounce upon a people from the mere 
accidents of chance intercourse, and he longed to see what 
might give him some real insight into the character of the 
nation. Besides this, he felt, with all the poignant suscep- 
tibility of his nature, that he was not himself the man to 
win success amongst them. There was a bold rough energy, 
a daring go-ahead spirit, that overbore him wherever he 
went. They who had not travelled spoke more confidently 
of foreign lands than he who had seen them. Of the very 
subjects he had made his own by study, he heard men speak 
with a confidence he would not have dared to assume; and 
lastly, the reserve which serves as a sanctuary to the bashful 
man was invaded without scruple by any one who pleased 
it. 

If each day’s experience confirmed him in the impression 
that he was not one to gain their suffrages, he was especially 
careful to conceal this discouraging conviction from Quack- 
inboss, leaving to time, that great physician, to provide for 
the future. Nor was the Colonel himself, be it owned, 
without his own misgivings. He saw, to his amazement, 
that the qualities which he had so much admired in Layton 
won no approval from his countrymen; the gifts, which by 
reading and reflection he had cultivated, seemed not to be 
marketable commodities ; there were no buyers, — none 
wanted them. Now Quackinboss began to think seriously 
over their project, deeply pained as he remembered that it 
was by his own enthusiastic description of his countrymen 
the plan had first met acceptance. Whether it was that the 
American mind had undergone some great change since he 


398 


ONE OF THEM. 


had known it, or that foreign travel had exaggerated, in his 
estimation, the memory of many things he had left behind 
him; but so it was, the Colonel was amazed to discover 
that with all the traits of sharp intelligence and activity 
he recognized in his countrymen, there were yet some fea- 
tures in the society of the old continent that he regretted 
and yearned after. Again and again did he refer to Italy 
and their life there; even the things he had so often con- 
demned now came up, softened by time and distance, as 
pleasant memories of an era passed in great enjoyment. 
If any passing trait in the scenery recalled the classic land, 
he never failed to remark it, and, once launched upon the 
theme, he would talk away for hours of the olive-woods, the 
trellised vines, the cottages half hid amidst the orange- 
groves, showing how insensibly the luxurious indolence he 
had imbibed lingered like a sort of poison in his blood. 

“Yes, sir,” said he, one day, as with an amount of irrita- 
tion he acknowledged the fatal fascination of that land of 
dreamy inactivity, “it’s my notion that Italy is a pasture 
where no beast ought to be turned out that ’s ever to. do any 
work again. It ain’t merely that one does nothing when 
he’s there, but he ain’t fit for anything when he leaves it. 
I know what I ’d have thought of any man that would have 
said to me, ‘ Shaver Quackinboss, you ’ll come out of them 
diggin’s lazy and indolent. You ’ll think more of your ease 
than you ought, and you ’ll be more grateful for being jest 
left .alone to follow your own fancies than for the best notion 
of speculation that ever was hit upon.’ And that’s exactly 
what I ’ve come to! I don’t want a fellow to tell me where 
I can make thirty or forty thousand dollars ; I ’ve lost all that 
spring in me that used to make me rise early and toil late. 
What I call happiness now is to sit and smoke with one of 
your sort of an afternoon, and listen to stories of chaps that 
lived long ago, and worked their way on in a world a pre- 
cious sight harder to bully than our own. Well now, sir, 
I say, that ain’t right, and it ain’t nat'ral, and, what ’s 
more, I ain’t a-goin’ to bear it. I mean to be stirrin’ and 
active again, and you ’ll see it.” 

It was a few days after he had made this resolve that he 
said to Layton, — 


QUACKINBOSS AT HOME. 


399 


“Only think who I saw at the bar this morning. That 
fellow we came over with in the passage out; he was 
a-liquoring down there and treating all the company. He 
comes up to me, straight on end, and says, — 

“ ‘ Well, old ’oss, and how do you get on? ’ 

“ ‘Bobbish-like,’ says I, for I was minded to be good- 
humored with him, and see what I could get out of him 
about hisself. 

“ ‘ Where ’s the young ’un 1 saw with you aboard? ’ says 
he. 

“ ‘ Well,’ said I, ‘ he ain’t very far off, when he ’s wanted.’ 

“‘That’s what he ain’t,’ said he; ‘he ain’t wanted 
nowhere.’ When he said this I saw he was very ‘ tight,’ as 
we call it, — far gone in liquor, I mean. 

“ ‘Have you found out that same water-power you were 
arter ? ’ said he. 

“ ‘ No,’ said I. ‘ It’s down West a man must go who 
has n’t a bag full of dollars. Everything up hereabouts is 
bought up at ten times its worth.’ 

“ ‘ Well, look sharp after the young ’un,’ said he, laugh- 
ing; ‘that’s my advice to you. Though you’re Yankee, 
he ’ll be too much for you in the end.’ He said this, drink- 
ing away all the time, and getting thicker in his speech at 
every word. 

“‘ I ain’t a man to neglect a warnin’,’ says I, in a sort of 
whisper, ‘ and if you mean friendly by me, speak out. ’ 

And ain’t that speaking out,’ says he, boldly, ‘ when I 
say to a fellow I scarcely know by sight, “Mind your eye; 
look out for squalls ! ” 1 wonder what more he wants ? Does 
he expect me to lend him money ? ’ said he, with an insolent 
laugh. 

“ ‘ No,’ said I, in the same easy way, ‘ by no manner o’ 
means ; and if it ’s myself you allude to, I ain’t in the voca- 
tive case, sir. I ’ve got in that old leather pocket-book quite 
enough for present use.’ 

“ ‘ Watch it well, then; put it under your head o’ nights, 
that’s all,’ said he, hiccuping; ‘and if you wake up some 
morning without it, don’t say the fault was Oliver Trover’s.’ 
This was a-tellin’ me his name, which I remembered the 
moment I heard it. 


400 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ ‘ You ’ll take a brandy-smash or a glass of bitters with 
me now, sir? ’ said I, hopin’ to get something more out of 
him; but he wouldn’t have it. He said, with a half- 
cunning leer, ‘ No more liquor, no more liquor, and no more 
secrets ! If you was to treat me to all in the bar, you ’d get 
nothing more out of Noll Trover.’ ” 

“But what does the fellow mean by his insinuations about 
me? ” said Layton, angrily. “I never knew him, never met 
him, never so much as heard of him ! ” 

“What does that signify if he has heard of you^ and sus- 
pects you to know something about him? He ain’t all 
right, that’s clear enough; but our country is so full of 
fellows like that, it ain’t easy work tracking ’em.” 

Layton shrugged his shoulders with an indifference, as 
though to say the matter did not interest him ; but Quackin- 
boss rejoined quickly, “ I ’ve a notion that it concerns us, 
sir. I heerd his inquiry about all the lines down South, 
and asking if any one knew a certain Harvey Winthrop, 
down at Norfolk.” 

“Winthrop — Winthrop? Where have I heard that 
name? ” 

“In that book of your father’s, — don’t you remember it? 
It was he was mentioned as the guardian of that young girl, 
the daughter of him as was pisoned at Jersey.” 

“And is this man Trover in search of Winthrop?” asked 
Layton, eagerly. 

“ Well, he’s a-lookin’ arter him, somehow, that’s certain; 
for when somebody said, ‘ Oh, Harvey Winthrop ain’t at 
Norfolk now,’ he looked quite put out and amazed, and 
muttered something about having made all his journey for 
nothing.” 

“It is strange, indeed, that we should have the same 
destination, and stranger still would it be if we should be 
both on the same errand.” 

“Well,” said Quackinboss, after a long pause, “I’ve 
been a-rolling the log over and over, to see which way to 
cut it, and at last, I believe, I ’ve found the right side o’ it. 
You and I must quarrel.” 

“ What do you mean?” asked Layton, in astonishment. 

“ I mean jest this. I must take up the suspicion that he 


QUACKINBOSS AT HOME. 


401 


has about you^ and separate from you. It may be to join 
him. He ’s one of your Old-World sort, that ’s always so 
proud to be reckoned ’cute and smart, that you ’ve only to 
praise his legs to get his leggin’s. We ’ll be as thick as 
thieves arter a week’s travelling, and I ’ll find out all that 
he ’s about. Trust Old Shaver, sir, to get to windward of 
small craft like that ! ” 

“ I own to you frankly,” said Layton, “ that I don’t fancy 
using a rogue’s weapons even against a rogue.” 

“Them’s not the sentiments of the men that made laws, 
sir,” said Quackinboss. “Laws is jest rogues’ weapons 
against rogues. You want to do something you have n’t no 
right to, and straight away you discover that some fellow 
was so wide awake once that he made a statute against it, 
ay, and so cleverly too, that he first imagined every different 
way you could turn your dodge, and provided for each in 
turn.” 

Layton shook his head in dissent, but could not repress a 
faint smile. 

“Ain’t it roguery to snare partridges and to catch fish, 
for the matter o’ that?” said he, with increased warmth. 
“ Wherever a fellow sliows hisself more ’cute than his neigh- 
bors, there ’s sure to be an outcry ‘ What a rogue he is ! ’ ” 

“Your theory would be an indictment against all man- 
kind,” said Layton. 

“ No, sir, for I only call him a rogue that turns his sharp- 
ness to bad and selfish ends. Now, that ’s not the case with 
him as hunts down varmint : he ’s a-doin’ a good work, and 
all the better that he may get scratched for his pains.” 

“ Well, what is your plan? ” said Layton, rather fearful of 
the length into which his friend’s speculations occasionally 
betrayed him. 

“Here it is, sir,” said the Colonel. “I’ll come down 
upon that crittur at Detroit, where I hear he’s a-goin’, and 
flatter him by saying that he was all right about 

“ Indeed ! ” said Layton, laughing. 

“Yes, sir,” said the other, gravely. “I’ll say to him, 
‘Stranger, you are a wide-awake ’un, that’s a fact.’ He’ll 
rise to that, like a ground-shark to a leg of pork, — see if he 
don’t, — and he ’ll go on to ask about 7joii; that will give me 

20 


402 


ONE OF THEM. 


the opportunity to give a sketch of myself, and a more 
simple, guileless sort of bein’ you ’ve not often heerd of than 
I’ll turn out to be. Yes, sir, I’m one as suspects no ill of 
anybody, jest out of the pureness of my own heart. When 
we get on to a little more intimacy, I mean to show him 
twenty thousand dollars I ’ve got by me, and ask his advice 
about investin’ ’em. I guess pretty nigh what he ’ll say ; 
‘ Give ’em over to me.’ Well, I ’ll take a bit of time to con- 
sider about that. There will be, in consequence, more in- 
timacy and more friendship atween us : but arter he ’s seen 
the money, he’ll not leave me: human natur’ couldn’t do 
thatr* 

“ Shall I tell you fairly,” said Layton, “ that I not only 
don’t like your scheme, but that I think it will not repay 
you ? ” 

“ Well, sir,” said Quackinboss, drawing himself up, when- 
ever you see me baitin’ a rat-trap, I don’t expect you ’ll say, 
‘ Colonel, ain’t that mean? Ain’t you ashamed of yourself 
to entice that poor varmint there to his ruin ? Why don’t 
you explain to him that if he wants that morsel of fried 
bacon, it will cost him pretty dear? ’ ” 

“You forget that you’re begging the question. You’re 
assuming, all this time, that this man is a rogue and a cheat.” 

“I am, sir,” said he, firmly, “ for it’s not at this time o’ 
day Shaver Quackinboss has to learn life. All the pepperin’ 
and lemon-squeezin’ in the world won’t make a toad taste 
like a terrapin : that crittur’s gold chains don’t impose upon 
me ! You remember that he was n’t aboard four-and-twenty 
hours when I said, ‘ That sheep ’s mangy.’ ” 

“ Perhaps I like your plan the less because it separates 
us,” said Layton, who now perceived that the Colonel seemed 
to smart under anything that reflected on his acuteness. 

‘ ‘ That ’s jest what galls me too,” said he, frankly. “ It ’s 
been all sunshine in my life, since we ’ve been together. All 
the book-learnin’ you ’ve got has stolen into j^our nature so 
gradually as to make part of yourself, but what you tell me 
comes like soft rain over a dry prairie, and changing the 
parched soil into something that seems to say, ‘ I ’m not so 
barren, after all, if I only got my turn from fortune.’ You ’ve 
shown me one thing, that I often had a glimmerin’ of, but 


QUACKINBOSS AT HOME. 


403 


never saw clearly till you pointed it out, that the wisest men 
that ever lived felt more distrust of themselves than of their 
fellows. But we only part for a while, Layton. In less 
than a month we’ll meet again, and I hope to have good 
news for you by that time.” 

“ Where are we to rendezvous, then? ” asked Layton, for 
he saw how fruitless would be the attempt at further oppo- 
sition. 

“ I ’ll have the map out this evening, and we ’ll fix it,” said 
the Colonel. “ And now leave me to smoke, and think over 
what ’s afore us. There ’s great thoughts in that bit of 
twisted ’bacco there, if I only have the wit to trace ’em. 
Every man that has had to use his head in life finds out by 
the time he ’s forty what helps him to his best notions. Bo- 
naparte used to get into a bath to think, Arkwright went to 
bed, and my father, Methuselah Grip Quackinboss, said he 
never was so bright as standing up to his neck in the mill- 
race, with the light spray of the wheel cornin’ in showers 
over him. ‘ I feel,’ says he, ‘ as if I was one-half Lord 
Bacon and the other John C. Colhoun.’ Now my brain- 
polisher is a long Cuban, a shady tree, and a look-out sea- 
ward, — all the better if the only sails in sight be far away.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 


A NEW LOCATION. 

After a great deal of discussion it was agreed between 
Layton and the Colonel that they should meet that day 
month at St. Louis. Layton was to employ the interval 
in seeing as much as he could. of the country and the people, 
and preparing himself to appear before them at the first 
favorable opportunity. Indeed, though he did not confess 
it, he yielded to the separation the more willingly, because 
it offered him the occasion of putting into execution a plan 
he for some time had been ruminating over. In some 
measure from a natural diffidence, and in a great degree 
from a morbid dread of disappointing the high expectations 
Quackinboss had formed of the success he was to obtain, 
Layton had long felt that the presence of his friend would 
be almost certain to insure his failure. He could neither 
venture to essay the same fiights before him, nor could he, 
if need were, support any coldness or disinclination of his 
audience were Quackinboss there to witness it. In fact, 
he wanted to disassociate his friend from any pain failure 
should occasion, and bear all alone the sorrows of defeat. 

Besides this, he felt that, however personally painful the 
ordeal, he was bound to face it. He had accepted Qiiackin- 
boss’s assistance under the distinct pledge that he was to 
try this career. In its success was he to find the means of 
repaying his friend ; and so confidently had the Colonel 
always talked of that success, it would seem mere wilfulness 
not to attempt it. 

There is not, perhaps, a more painful position in life than 
to be obliged to essay a career to which all one’s thoughts 
and instincts are opposed ; to do something against which 
self-respect revolts, and yet meet no sympathy from others, — 


A NEW LOCATION. 


405 


to be conscious that any backwardness will be construed 
into self-indulgence, and disinclination be set down as in- 
dolence. Now this was Alfred Layton’s case. He must 
either risk a signal failure, or consent to be thought of as 
one who would rather be a burden to his friends than make 
an honorable effort for his own support. He was already 
heavily in the Colonel’s debt ; the thought of this weighed 
upon him almost insupportably. It never quitted him for 
an instant ; and, worse than all, it obtruded through every 
effort he made to acquit himself of the obligation ; and only 
they who have experienced it can know what pain brain 
labor becomes when it is followed amidst the cares and 
anxieties of precarious existence ; when the student tries in 
vain to concentrate thoughts that will stray away to the 
miserable exigencies of his lot, or struggle hopelessly to 
forget himself and his condition in the interest of bygone 
events or unreal incidents. Let none begrudge him the few 
flitting moments of triumph he may win, for he has earned 
them by many a long hour of hardship ! 

The sense of his utter loneliness, often depressing and 
dispiriting, was now a sort of comfort to him. Looking 
to nothing but defeat, he was glad that there was none 
to share in his sorrows. Of all the world, he thought poor 
Clara alone would pity him. Her lot was like his own, — 
the same friendlessness, the self-same difficulty. Why should 
he not have her sympath}^? She would give it freely and 
with her whole heart. It was but to tell her, “I am far 
away and unhappy. I chafe under dependence, and I 
know not how to assert my freedom. I would do some- 
thing, and yet I know not what it is to be. I distrust my- 
self, and yet there are times when I feel that one spoken word 
would give such courage to my heart that I could go on 
and hope.” Could she speak that word to him? was his 
ever present thought. He resolved to try, and accordingly 
wrote her a long, long letter. Full of the selfishness of 
one who loved, he told her the wffiole story of his journey, 
and the plan that led to it. “I have patience enough for 
slow toil,” said he, “but I do not seek for the success it 
brings. I wanted the quick prosperity that one great effort 
might secure, and time afterwards to enjoy the humble for- 


406 


ONE OF THEM. 


tune thus acquired. With merely enough for life, Clara, I 
meant to ask you to share it. Who are as friendlessly alone 
as we are ? Who are so bereft of what is called home ? Say, 
have you a heart to give me, — when I can claim it, — and 
will you give it? I am low and wretched because I feel un- 
loved. Tell me this is not so, and in the goal before me 
hope and energy will come back to me.” Broken and scarce 
coherent at times, his letter revealed one who loved her ar- 
dently, and who wanted but her pledge to feel himself happy. 
He pressed eagerly to know of her own life, — what it was, 
and whether she was contented. Had she learned anything 
of the mystery that surrounded her family, or could she give 
him the slightest clew by which he could aid her in the 
search? He entreated of her to write to him, even though 
her letter should not be the confirmation of all he wished and 
prayed for. 

The very fact of his having written this to Clara seemed to 
rally his spirits. It was at least a pledge to his own heart. 
He had placed a goal before him, and a hope. 

“I am glad to see you look cheerier,” said Quackinboss, 
as they sat talking over their plans. “The hardest load a 
man ever carried is a heavy heart, and it ’s as true as my 
name ’s Shaver, that one gets into the habit of repinin’ and 
seein’ all things black jest as one falls into any other evil 
habit. Old Grip Quackinboss said, one day, to Mr. Jeffer- 
son, ‘ Yes, sir,’ says he, ‘ alwa3^s hearty^, sir, — always cheery. 
There ’s an old lady as sweeps the crossin’ in our street, and 
I give her a quarter-dollar to fret for me, for it ’s a thing 
I’ve sworn never to do for myself.’” 

“ Well,” said Layton, gayly, “you ’ll see I ’ve turned over 
a new leaf ; and whatever other thoughts you shall find in me, 
causeless depression shall not be of the number.” 

“All right, sir; that’s my own platform. Now here’s 
your instructions, for I ’m a-goin’. I start at seven-forty, 
by the cars for Buffalo. That spot down there is our meetin’- 
place, — St. Louis. It looks mighty insignificant on the map, 
there ; but you’ll see it ’s a thrivin’ location, and plenty of 
business in it. You ’ll take your own time about being there, 
only be sure to arrive by this day month ; and if I be the man 
I think myself, I ’ll have news to tell you when you come. 


A NEW LOCATION. 


407 


This crittur, Trover, knows all about that widow Morris, and 
the girl, too, — that Clara, — you was so fond of. If I have 
to tie him up to a tree, sir, I ’ll have it out of him ! There ’s 
five hundred dollars in that bag. You ’ll not need all of it, 
belike, if you keep clear of ‘ Poker ’ and Bully-brag ; and I 
advise you to, sir, — I do,” said he, gravely. “ It takes a 
man to know life, to guess some of the sharp ’uns in our 
river steamers. There ’s no other dangers to warn you of 
here, sir. Don’t be riled about trifles, and you ’ll find your- 
self very soon at home with us.” 

These were his last words of counsel as he shook Layton’s 
hand at parting. It was with a sad sense of loneliness Lay- 
ton sat by his window after Quackinboss had gone. For 
many a month back he had had no other friend or com- 
panion : ever present to counsel, console, or direct him, 
the honest Yankee was still more ready with his purse 
than his precepts. Often as they had differed in their 
opinions, not a hasty word or disparaging sentiment had 
ever disturbed their intercourse ; and even the Colonel’s 
most susceptible spot — that which touched upon national 
characteristics — never was even casually wounded in the 
converse. In fact, each had learned to see with how very 
little forbearance in matters of no moment, and with how 
slight an exercise of deference for differences of object 
and situation, English and American could live together 
like brothers. 

There was but one thought which embittered the relations 
between them, in Layton’s estimation. It was the sense of 
that dependence which destroyed equality. He was satisfied 
to be deeply the debtor of his friend, but he could not strug- 
gle between what he felt to be a fitting gratitude, and that 
resolute determination to assert what he believed to be true 
at any cost. He suspected, too, — and the suspicion was a 
very painful one, — that the Colonel deemed him indolent and 
self-indulgent. The continued reluctance he had evinced to 
adventure on the scheme for which they came so far, favored 
this impression. 

As day after day he travelled along, one thought alone 
occupied him. At each place he stopped came the questions. 
Will this suit? Is this the spot I am in search of? It was 


408 


ONE OF THEM. 


strange to mark by what slight and casual events his mind 
was influenced. The slightest accident that ruffled him as he 
arrived, an insignificant inconvenience, a passing word, the 
look of the place, the people, the very aspect of the weather, 
were each enough to assure him he had not yet discovered 
what he sought after. It was towards the close of his fifth 
day’s ramble that he reached the small town of Bunkumville. 

It was a newly settled place, and, like all such, not over- 
remarkable for comfort or convenience. The spot had been 
originally laid out as the centre of certain lines of railroad, 
and intended to have been a place of consequence ; but the 
engineers who had planned it had somehow incurred disgrace, 
the project was abandoned, and instead of a commercial 
town, rich, populous, and flourishing, it now presented the 
aspect of a spot hastily deserted, and left to linger out an 
existence of decline and neglect. There were marks enough 
to denote the grand projects which were once entertained for 
the place, — great areas measured off for squares, spacious 
streets staked off; here and there massive “blocks” of 
building ; three or four hotels on a scale of vast proportion, 
and an assembly-room worthy of a second-rate city. With 
all this, the population was poor-looking and careworn. No 
stir of trade or business to be met with. A stray bullock-car 
stole drearily along through the deep-rutted streets, or a 
traveller significantly armed with rifle and revolver rode by 
on his own raw-boned horse ; but of the sights and sounds of 
town life and habits there were none. Of the hotels, two 
were closed ; the third was partially occupied as a barrack, 
by a party of cavalry despatched to repress some Indian out- 
rages on the frontier. Even the soldiers had contracted 
some of the wild, out-of-the- world look of the place, and ♦ 
wore their belts over buckskin jackets, that smacked more of 
the prairie than the parade. The public conveyance which 
brought Layton to the spot only stopped long enough to bait 
the horses and refresh the travellers ; and it was to the no 
small surprise of the driver that he saw the “ Britisher” ask 
for his portmanteau, with the intention of halting there. 
“Well, you ain’t a-goin’ to injure your constitution with 
gayety and late hours, stranger,” said he, as he saw him 
descend; “that’s a fact.” 


A NEW LOCATION. 


40 ^ 


Nor was the sentiment one that Layton could dispute, as, 
still standing beside his luggage in the open street, he 
watched the stage till it disappeared in the distant pine 
forest. Two or three lounging, lazy-looking inhabitants had, 
meanwhile, come up, and stood looking with curiosity at the 
new arrival. 

“You ain’t a valuator, are you?” asked one, after a long 
and careful inspection of him. 

“ No,” said Layton, dryly. 

“You ’re a-lookin’ for a saw-mill, I expect,” said another, 
with a keen glance as he spoke. 

“ Nor that, either,” was the answer. 

“ I have it,” broke in a third ; “ you ’ve got ‘ notions ’ in 
that box, there, but it won’t do down here ; we ’ve got too 
much bark to hew off before we come to such fixin’s.” 

“ I suspect you are not nearer the mark than your friends, 
sir,” said Layton, still repressing the slightest show of 
impatience. 

“ What’ll you lay, stranger, I don’t hit it? ” cried a tall, 
thin, bold-looking fellow, with long hair falling over his 
neck. “You’re a preacher, ain’t you? You’re from the 
New England States, I ’ll be bound. Say I ’m right, sir, for 
you know I am.” 

“ I must give it against you, sir, also,” said Layton, pre- 
serving his gravity with an effort that was not without diffi- 
culty. “ I do not follow any one of the avocations you 
mention ; but, in return for your five questions, may I make 
bold to ask one? Which is the hotel here?” 

“ It ’s yonder,” said the tall man, pointing to a large house, 
handsomely pillared, and overgrown with the luxuriant 
foliage of the red acanthus ; “ there it is. That ’s the 
Temple of Epicurus, as you see it a-written up. You ain’t 
for speculatin’ in that sort, are you ? ” 

“No,” said Layton, quietly; “I was merely asking for a 
house of entertainment.” 

“You ’re a Britisher, I reckon,” said one of the former 
speakers; “that’s one of their words for meat and drink.” 

Without waiting for any further discussion of himself, 
his country, or his projects, Layton walked towards the 
hotel. From the two upper tiers of windows certain portions 


410 


ONE OF THEM. 


of military attire, hung out to air or to dry, undeniably 
announced a soldierly occupation ; cross-belts, overalls, and 
great-coats bung gracefully suspended on all sides. Lower 
down, there was little evidence of habitation ; most of the 
windows were closely shuttered, and through such as were 
open Layton saw large and lofty rooms, totally destitute of 
furniture and in part unfinished. The hall-door opened 
upon a spacious apartment, at one side of which a bar had 
been projected, but the plan had gone no further than a long 
counter and some shelves, on which now a few bottles stood 
in company with three or four brass candlesticks, a plaster 
bust, wanting a nose, and some cooking-utensils. On the 
counter itself was stretched at full length, and fast asleep, a 
short, somewhat robust man, in shirt and trousers, his deep 
snoring awaking a sort of moaning echo in the vaulted 
room. Not exactly choosing to disturb his slumbers, if 
avoidable, Layton pushed his explorations a little further; 
but though he found a number of rooms, all open, they were 
alike empty and unfinished, nor was there a creature to be 
met with throughout. There was, then, nothing for it but 
to awaken the sleeper, which he proceeded to, at first by 
gentle, but, as these failed, by more vigorous means. 

“Don’t! 1 say,” growled out the man, without opening his 
eyes, but seeming bent on continuing his sleep; “I T1 not 
have it; let me be, — that ’s all.” 

“Are you the landlord of this hotel?” said Layton, with 
a stout shake by the shoulder. 

“Well, then, here’s for it, if you will!” cried the other, 
springing up, and throwing himself in an instant into a 
boxing attitude, while his eyes glared with a vivid wildness, 
and his whole face denoted passion. 

“I came here for food and lodging, and not for a boxing- 
match, my friend,” said Layton, mildly. 

“And who said I was your friend?” said the other, 
fiercely: “who told you that we was raised in the same dig- 
gin’s? and what do you mean, sir, by disturbin’ a gentle- 
man in his bed? ” 

“You’ll scarcely call that bench a bed, I think?” said 
Layton, in an accent meant to deprecate all warmth. 

“And why not, sir? If you choose to dress yourself like 


A NEW LOCATION. 


411 


a checker-board, I *m not going to dispute whether you 
have a coat on. It ’s my bed, and I like it. And now what 
next? ” 

“I ’m very sorry to have disturbed you; and if you can 

only tell me if there be any other hotel in this place ” 

“There ain’t; and there never will be, that ’s more. Els- 
more’s is shut up; Chute Melchin ’s a-blown his brains out; 



and so would you if you ’d have come here. Don’t laugh, 
or by the everlastin’ rattlesnake. I’ll bowie you! ” 

The madly excited look of the man, his staring eyes, re- 
treating forehead, and restless features made Layton sus- 
pect he was insane, and he would gladly have retired from 
an interview that promised so little success ; but the other 
walked deliberately round, and, barring the passage to the 
door, stood with his arms crossed before him. 

“You think I don’t know you, but I do; I heerd of you 
eight weeks ago; I knew you was cornin’, but darm me all 
blue if you shall have it. Come out into the orchard: come 


412 


ONE OF THEM. 


out, I say, and let ’s see who 's the best man. You think 
you ’ll come here and make this like the Astor House, don’t 
ye? arid there ’ll be five or six hundred every night pressing 
up to the bar for bitters and juleps, just because you have 
the place? But I say Dan Heron ain’t a-goin’ to quit; he 
stands here like old Hickory in the mud-fort, and says, try 
and turn me out.” 

By the time the altercation had reached thus far, Layton 
saw that a crowd of some five-and- twenty or thirty persons 
had assembled outside the door, and were evidently enjoy- 
ing the scene with no common zest. Indeed, their mutter- 
ings of “Dan ’s a-givin’ it to him,” “Dan ’s full steam up,” 
and so on, showed where their sympathies inclined. Some, 
however, more kindly-minded, and moved by the unfriended 
position of the stranger, good-naturedly interposed, and, 
having obtained Layton’s sincere and willing assurance that 
he never harbored a thought of becoming proprietor of the 
Temple, nor had he tlie very vaguest notion of settling down 
at Bunkumville in any capacity, peace was signed, and Mr. 
Heron consented to receive him as a guest. 

Taking a key from a nail on the wall, Dan Heron pre- 
ceded him to a small chamber, where a truckle-bed, a chair, 
and a basin on the floor formed the furniture ; but he prom- 
ised a table, and if the stay of the stranger warranted the 
trouble, some other “fixin’s” in a day or two. 

“You can come and eat a bit with me about sun-down,’^ 
said Dan, doggedly, as he withdrew, for he was not yet 
quite satisfied what projects the stranger nursed in his 
bosom. 

Resolved to make the best of a situation not over- 
promising, to go with the humor of his host so far as he 
could, and even, where possible, try and derive some amuse- 
ment from his eccentricities, Layton presented himself 
punctually at meal-time. The supper was laid out in a 
large kitchen, where an old negress officiated as cook. It 
was abundant and savory; there was every imaginable 
variety of bread, and the display of dishes was imposing. 
The circumstance was, however, explained by Heron’s 
remarking that it was the supper of the officers of the 
detachment they were eating, a sudden call to the frontier 


A NEW LOCATION. 413 

having that same morning arrived, and to this lucky acci- 
dent were they indebted for this abundance. 

An apple-brandy “smash of Mr. Heron’s own devising 
wound up the meal, and the two lighted their cigars, and in 
all the luxurious ease of their rocking-chairs, enjoyed their 
post-prandial elysium. 

“Them boots of yours is English make,” was Mr. Heron’s 
first remark, after a long pause. 

“Yes, London,” was the brief reply. 

“I’ve been there; I don’t like it.” 

Layton muttered some expression of regret at this senti- 
ment ; but the other not heeding went on : — 

“I’ve seen most parts of the world, but there ain’t any- 
thing to compare with this.” 

Layton was not certain whether it was the supremacy of 
America he asserted, or the city of Bunkumville in particin 
lar, but he refrained from inquiring, preferring to let the 
other continue; nor did he seem at all unwilling. He went 
on to give a half-connected account of a migratory adven- 
turous sort of life at home and abroad. He had been a 
cook on shipboard, a gold-digger, an auctioneer, a show- 
man, dealt in almost every article of commerce, smuggled 
opium into China and slaves into New Orleans, and with 
all his experiences had somehow or other not hit upon the 
right road to fortune. Not, indeed, that he distrusted his 
star, — far from it. He believed himself reserved for great 
things, and never felt more certain of being within their 
reach than at this moment. 

“It was I made this city we ’re in, sir,” said he, proudly. 
“I built all that mass yonder, — Briggs Block; I built the 
house we ’re sitting in; I built that Apollonicon, the music- 
hall you saw as you came in, and I lectured there too; and 
if it were not for an old ‘ rough ’ that won’t keep off his 
bitters early of a mornin’, I ’d be this day as rich as John 
Jacob Astor: that’s what’s ruined me, sir. 1 brought him 
from New York with me down here, and there ’s nothing 
from a bird-cage to a steam-boiler that fellow can’t make 
you when he ’s sober, — ay, and describe it too. If you 
only heerd him talk! Well, he made a telegraph here, and 
set two saw-mills a-goin’, and made a machine for getting 


414 


ONE OF THEM. 


the salt out of that lake yonder, and then took to manufac- 
turing macaroni and gunpowder, and some dye-stuff out of 
oak bark ; and what will you say, stranger, when I tell you 
that he sold each of these inventions for less than gave him 
a week’s carouse? And now I have him here, under lock 
and key, waiting till he comes to hisself, which he ’s rather 
long about this time.” 

“Is he ill? ” asked Layton. 

“Well, you can’t say exactly he’s all right; he gave his- 
self an ugly gash with a case-knife on the neck, and tried 
to blow hisself up arter with some combustible stuff, so that 
he’s rather black about the complexion; and then he’s 
always a-screechin’ and yellin’ for drink, but I go in at 
times with a heavy whip, and he ain’t unreasonable then.” 

“He’s mad, in fact,” said Layton, gravely. 

“I only wish you and I was as sane, stranger,” said the 
other. “There ain’t that place on the globe old Poll, as 
we call him, could n’t make a livin’ in; he ’s a man as could 
help a minister with his discourse, or teach a squaw how to 
work moccasins. I don’t know what your trade is, but I ’ll 
be bound he knows something about it you never heerd of.” 

Mr. Heron went on to prove how universally gifted his 
friend was by mentioning how, on his first arrival, he gave 
a course of lectures on a plan which assuredly might have 
presented obstacles to many. It was only when the room 
was filled, and the public itself consulted, that the theme of 
the lecture was determined ; so that the speaker was actually 
called upon, without a moment for preparation, to expatiate 
upon any given subject. Nor was the test less trying that 
the hearers were plain practical folk, who usually pro- 
pounded questions in which they possessed some knowledge 
themselves. How to open a new clearing, what treatment 
to apply to the bite of the whipsnake, by what contrivance 
to economize water in mills, how to tan leather without oak 
bark, — such and such-like were the theses placed before 
him, matters on which the public could very sufficiently 
pronounce themselves. Old Poll, it would seem, had sus- 
tained every test, and come through every ordeal of demand 
victorious. While the host thus continued to expatiate on 
this man’s marvellous gifts, Layton fell a-thinking whether 


A NEW LOCATION. 


415 


this might not be the very spot he sought for, and this the 
audience before whom he could experiment on as a public 
speaker. It was quite evident that the verdict could confer 
little either of distinction or disparagement: success or 
failure were, as regarded the future, not important. If, 
however, he could succeed in interesting them at all, — if 
he could make the themes of which they had never so much 
as heard in any way amusing or engaging, — it would be 
a measure of what he might attain with more favorable 
hearers. He at once propounded his plan to Mr. Heron, not 
confessing, however, that he meditated a first attempt, but 
speaking as an old and practised lecturer. 

“What can you give ’em, sir? They ’re horny-handed and 
flat-footed folk down here, but they ’ll not take an old hen 
for a Bucks county chicken, I tell you ! ” 

“I am a little in your friend Poll’s line,” said Layton, 
good-humoredly. “I could talk to them about history, and 
long ago; what kind of men ruled amongst Greeks and 
Romans; what sort of wars they waged ; how they colonized, 
and what they did with the conquered. If my hearers had 
patience for it, I could give them some account of their 
great orators and poets.” 

Heron shook his head dissentingly, and said Poll told ’em 
all that, and nobody wanted it, till he came to them chaps 
they call the gladiators, and showed how they used to spar 
and hit out. “Wasn’t it grand to see him, with his great 
chest and strong old arms, describin’ all their movements, 
and how much they trusted to activity, imitating all from 
the wild beast, — not like our boxers, who make fighting a 
reg’lar man’s combat. You couldn’t take up that, could 
you?” 

“I fear not,” said Layton, despondingly. 

“Well, tell ’em something of the old country in a time 
near their own. They ’d like to hear about their great- 
grandfathers and grandmothers.” 

“Would they listen to me if I made Ireland the subject, 
— Ireland just before she was incorporated with England, 
when, with a Parliament of her own, she had a resident 
gentry, separate institutions, and strong traits of individual 
nationality ? ” 


416 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Tell ’em about fellows that had strong heads and stout 
hands, that, though they might n’t always be right in their 
opinions, was willing and ready to fight for ’em. Give ’em 
a touch of the way they talked in their House of Parliament j 
and if you can bring in a story or two, and make ’em 
laugh, — it ain’t a’ways easy to do, — but if you can do it, 
you may travel from Cape Cod to the Gulf of Mexico and 
never change a dollar.” 

“Here goes, then! I ’ll try it! ” said Layton, at once de- 
termined to risk the effort. “When can it be?” 

“It must be at once, for there ’s a number of ’em a-goin’ 
West next week. Say to-morrow night, seven o’clock. 
Entrance, twelve cents; first chairs, five-and-twenty. No 
smokin’ allowed, except between the acts.” 

“Take all the arrangements on yourself, and give me 
what you think fair of our profits,” said Layton. 

“That’s reasonable; no man can say it ain’t. What’s 
your name, stranger?” 

“My name is Alfred — But never mind my name; 
-announce me as a Gentleman from England.” 

“Who has lectured before the Queen and Napoleon Bona- 
parte. ” 

“Nay, that I have never done.” 

“Well, but you might, you know; and if you didn’t, the 
greater loss theirs.” 

“Perhaps so; but I can’t consent — ” 

“Just leave them things to me. And now, one hint for 
yourself : when you ’re a-windin’ up, dash it all with a little 
soft sawder, sajin’ as how you ’d rather be addressin’ them 
than the Emperor of Roosia ; that the sight of men as loves 
liberty, and knows how to keep it, is as good as Peat’s 
vegetable balsam, that warms the heart without feverin’ the 
blood; and that wherever you go the ’membrance of the city 
and its enlightened citizens will be the same as photo- 
graphed on your heart; that there ’s men here ought to be in 
Congress, and women fit for queens ! And if you throw in 
a bit of the star-spangled — you know what — it ’ll do no 
harm.” 

Layton only smiled at these counsels, offered, however, 
in a spirit far from jesting; and after a little further dis- 


A NEW LOCATION. 


41T 


cussion of the plan, Heron said, “Oh, if we only could 
get old Poll bright enough to write the placards, — that ’s 
what he excels in; there ain’t his equal for capitals any- 
where.” 

Though Layton felt very little desire to have the individ- 
ual referred to associated with him or his scheme, he trusted 
to the impossibility of the alliance, and gave himself no 
trouble to repudiate it ; and after a while they parted, with 
a good-night and hope for the morrow. 


27 


CHAPTER XLin. 


BUNKUMVILLE. 

“You would n’t believe it, — no one would believe it,” said 
Mr. Heron, as he hastily broke in upon Layton the next 
morning, deep in preparations for the coming event. 
“There’s old Poll all spry and right again; he asked for 
water to shave himself, an invariable sign with him that he 
was a-goin’ to try a new course.” 

Layton, not caring to open again what might bear upon 
this history, merely asked some casual question upon the 
arrangements for the evening; but Heron rejoined: “I told 
Poll to do it all. The news seemed to revive him ; and far 
from, as I half dreaded, any jealousy about another taking 
his place, he said, ‘ This looks like a promise of better 
things down here. If our Bunkumville folk will only en- 
courage lecturers to come amongst them, their tone of 
thinking and speaking will improve. They ’ll do their 
daily work in a better spirit, and enjoy their leisure with a 
higher zest.’ ” 

“Strange sentiments from one such as you pictured to me 
last night.” 

“Lord love ye, that ’s his way. He beats all the Temper- 
ance ’Postles about condemning drink. He can tell more 
anecdotes of the mischief it works, explain better its evil on 
the health, and the injury it works in a man’s natur’, than 
all the talkers ever came out of the Mayne Convention.” 

“ Which scarcely says much for the force of his convic- 
tions,” said Layton, smiling. 

“I only wish he heard you say so, Britisher; if he 
would n’t chase you up a pretty high tree, call me a land 
crab ! I remember well, one night, how he lectured on that 
very point, and showed that what was vulgarly called hypoc- 


BUNKUMVILLE. 


419 


risy was jest neither more nor less than a diseased and 
exaggerated love of approbation, — them’s his words; I 
took ’em down and showed ’em to him next morning, and 
all he said was, ‘ I suppose I said it arter dinner.’ ” 

“Am I to see your friend and make his acquaintance?” 
asked Layton. 

“Well,” said the other, with some hesitation, “I rayther 
suspect not; he said as much that he did n’t like meeting 
any one from the old country. It ’s my idea that he warn’t 
over well treated there, somehow, though he won’t say it.” 

“But as one who has never seen him before, and in all 
likelihood is never to see him again — ” 

“No use; whenever he makes up his mind in that quiet 
way he never changes, and he said, ‘ I ’ll do all you want, 
only don’t bring me forward. I have my senses now, and 
shame is one of ’em! ’ ” 

“You increase my desire to see and know this poor 
fellow.” 

“Mayhap you’re a-thinkin’, Britisher, whether, if you 
could wile him away from me, you could n’t do a good 
stroke of work with him down South, — eh? wasn’t that 
it?” 

“No, on my word; nothing of the kind. My desire was 
simply to know if I could n’t serve him where he was, and 
where he is probably to remain.” 

“Where he is sartainly to remain, I’d say, sir, — sar- 
tainly to remain ! I ’d rayther give up the Temple, ay, and 
all the fixin’s, than I ’d give up that man. There ain’t one 
spot in creation he ain’t fit for. Take him North, and he ’ll 
beat all the Abolitionists ever talked; bring him down to 
the old South State, and hear him how he ’ll make out that 
the Bible stands by slavery, and that Blacks are to Whites 
what children are to their elders, — a sort of folk to be fed, 
and nourished, and looked arter, and, maybe, cor-rected a 
little betimes. Fetch him up to Lowell, and he ’ll teach the 
factory folk in their own mills ; and as to the art of stump- 
raisin’, rotation of crops in a new soil, fattenin’ hogs, and 
curin’ salmon, jest show me one to compare with him! ” 

“How sad that such a man should be lost! ” said Layton, 
half to himself. 


420 


ONE OE THEM. 


But the other overheard him, and rejoined: “It’s always 
with some sentiment of that kind you Britishers work out 
something for your own benefit. You never conquer a new 
territory except to propagate trial by jury and habeas cor- 
pus. Now look out here, for I won’t stand you ’re steppin’ 
in ’tween me and old Poll.” 

It was not enough for Layton to protest that he harbored 
no such intentions. Mr. Heron’s experiences of mankind 
had inspired very different lessons than those of trust and 
confidence, and he secretly determined that no opportunity 
should be given to carry out the treason he dreaded. 

“When the lecturin’ -room is a-clean swept out and 
dusted, the table placed, and the blackboard with a piece of 
chalk ahind it, and the bills a-posted, setting forth what 
you ’re a-goin’ to stump out, there ain’t no need for more. 
If you ’ve got the stuff in you to amuse our folk, you ’ll see 
the quarter dollars a-rollin’ in, in no time! If they think, 
however, that you ’re only come here to sell ’em grit for buck- 
wheat, darm me considerable, but there ’s lads here would 
treat you to a cowhide ! ” 

Layton did not hear this alternative with all the conscious 
security of success, not to say that it was a penalty on fail- 
ure far more severe and practical than any his fears had 
ever anticipated. Coldness he was prepared for, disappro- 
bation he might endure, but he was not ready to be treated 
as a cheat and impostor because he had not satisfied the 
expectancies of an audience. 

“I half regret,” said he, “that I should not have learned 
something more of your public before making my appear- 
ance to them. It may not be, perhaps, too late.” 

“Well, I suspect it is too late,” said the other, dryly. 
“They won’t stand folks a-postin’ up bills, and then say in’ 
‘ There ain’t no performance. ’ You ’re not in the Hay- 
market, sir, where you can come out with a flam about 
sudden indisposition, and a lie signed by a ’pottecary.” 

“But if I leave the town? ” 

“I wouldn’t say you mightn’t, if you had a bal-loon,” 
said the other, laughing; “but as to any other way, I defy 
you ! ” 

Layton was not altogether without the suspicion that Mr. 


BUNKUMVILLE. 


421 


Heron was trying to play upon his fears, and this was 
exactly the sort of outrage that a mind like his would least 
tolerate. It was, to be sure, a wild, out-of-the-world kind 
of place; the people were a rough, semi-civilized-looking 
set; public opinion in such a spot might take a rude form; 
what they deemed unequal to their expectations, they might 
construe as a fraud upon their pockets; and if so, and that 
their judgment should take the form he hinted at — Still, 
he was reluctant to accept this version of the case, and 
stood deeply pondering what line to adopt. - 

“You don’t like it, stranger; now that’s a fact,” said 
Heron, as he scanned his features. “You ’ve been a-think- 
in’, ‘ Oh, any rubbish I like will be good enough for these 
bark-cutters. What should such fellows know, except about 
their corn crops and their saw-mills? I needn’t trouble 
my head about what I talk to ’em.’ But now, you see, it 
ain’t so; you begin to perceive that Jonathan, with his 
sleeves rolled up for work, is a smart man, who keeps his 
brains oiled and his thoughts polished, like one of Platt’s 
engines, and it won’t do to ask him to make French rolls 
out of sawdust! ” 

Layton was still silent, partly employed in reviewing the 
difficulty of his position, but even more, perhaps, from 
chagrin at the tone of impertinence addressed to him. 

“Yes, sir,” said Heron, continuing an imaginary dia- 
logue with himself, — “yes, sir; that’s a mistake more 
than one of your countrymen has fallen into. As Mr. Clay 
said, it’s so hard for an Englishman not to think of us as 
colonists.” 

“I’ve made up my mind,” said Layton, at last. “I’ll 
not lecture.” 

“Won’t you? Then all I can say is, Britisher, look out 
for a busy arternoon. I told you what our people was. I 
warned you that if they struck work an hour earlier to listen 
to a preacher, it would fare ill with him if he wanted the 
mill to turn without water.” 

“I repeat, I ’ll not lecture, come what may of it,” said 
Layton, firmly. 

“Well, it ain’t so very hard to guess what will come of 
it,” replied the other. 


422 


ONE OF THEM. 


“This is all nonsense and folly, sir,” said Layton, 
angrily. “I have taken no man’s money; I have deceived 
no one. Your people, when I shall have left this place, 
will be no worse than when I entered it.” 

“If that ’s your platform, stranger, come out and defend it; 
we ’ll have a meetin’ called, and I promise you a fair bearin’.” 

“I have no account to render to any. I am not respon- 
sible for my conduct to one of you ! ” said Layton, angrily. 

“You’re a-beggin’ the whole question, stranger; so jest 
keep these arguments for the meetin’.” 

“Meeting! I will attend no meeting! Whatever be your 
local ways and habits, you have no right to impose them 
upon a stranger. I am not one of you; I will not be one 
of you.” 

“That’s more of the same sort of reasonin’; but you ’ll 
be chastised, Britisher, see if you ain’t! ” 

“Let me have some sort of conveyance, or, if need be, a 
horse. I will leave this at once. Any expenses I have 
incurred I am ready to pay. You hear me? ” 

“Yes, I hear you, but that ain’t enough. You ’re bound 
by them bills, as you ’ll see stickin’ up all through the town, 
to appear this evening and deliver a lecture before the 
people of this city — ” 

“One word for all, I ’ll not do it.” 

“And do you tell me, sir, that when our folk is a-gath- 
erin’ about the assembly rooms, that they ’re to be told to 
go home ag’in; that the Britisher has changed his mind, 
and feels someways as if he didn’t like it?” 

“That may be as it can; my determination is fixed. 
You may lecture yourself ; or you can, perhaps, induce your 
friend — I forget his name — to favor the company.” 

“Well, sir, if old Poll’s strength was equal to it, the pub- 
lic would n’t have to regret you. It ain’t one of your stamp 
could replace him, that I tell you.” 

A sudden thought here flashed across Layton’s mind, and 
he hastened to profit by it. 

“Why not ask him to take my place? 1 am ready, most 
ready, to requite his services. Tell him, if you like, that I 
will pay all the expenses of the evening, and leave' him the 
receipts. Or say, if he prefer, that I will give him thirty. 


BUNKUMVILLE. 


423 


forty, ay, fifty dollars, if he will relieve me from an engage- 
ment I have no mind for.” 

“Well, that does sound a bit reasonable,” said the other, 
slowly; “though, mayhap, he ’ll not think the terms so high. 
You would n’t say eighty, or a hundred, would you? He ’s 
proud, old Poll, and it ’s best not to offend him by a mean 
offer.” 

Layton bit his lip impatiently, and walked up and down 
the room without speaking. 

“Not to say,” resumed Heron, “that he’s jest out of 
a sick-bed; the exertion might give him a relapse. The 
con-tingencies is to be calc’lated, as they say on the rail- 
roads.” 

“If it be only a question between fifty and eighty — ” 

“That’s it, — well spoken. Well, call it a hundred, and 
I’m off to see if it can’t be done.” And without waiting 
% for a reply. Heron hastened out of the room as he spoke. 

Notwithstanding the irritation the incident caused him, 
Layton could not, as soon as he found himself alone, avoid 
laughing at the absurdity of his situation. 

If he never went the full length of believing in the hazard- 
ous consequences Mr. Heron predicted, he at least saw that 
he must be prepared for any mark of public disfavor his 
disappointment might excite; and it was just possible such 
censure might assume a very unpleasant shape. The edicts 
of Judge Lynch are not always in accordance with the dig- 
nity of the accused, and though this consideration first 
forced him to laugh, his second thoughts were far graver. 
Nor were these thoughts unmixed with doubts as to what 
Quackinboss would say of the matter. Would he condemn 
the rashness of his first pledge, or the timidity of his re- 
treat; or would he indignantly blame him for submission to 
a menace? In the midst of these considerations. Heron re- 
entered the room. 

“There, sir; it ’s all signed and sealed. Old Poll ’s to do 
the work, and you ’re to be too ill to appear. That will 
require your stayin’ here till nightfall ; but when the folks 
is at the hall, you can slip through the town and make for 
New Lebanon.” 

“And I am to pay — how much did you say? ” 


424 


ONE OF THEM. 


“What you proposed yourself, sir. A hundred dollars.” 

“At eight o’clock, then, let me have a wagon ready,” 
said Layton, too much irritated with his own conduct to be 
moved by anything in that of his host. He therefore paid 
little attention to Mr. Heron’s account of all the ingenuity 
and address it had cost him to induce old Poll to become 
his substitute, nor would he listen to one word of the con- 
versation reported to have passed on that memorable occa- 
sion. What cared he to hear how old Poll looked ten years 
younger since the bargain? He was to be dressed like a 
gentleman ; he was to be in full black ; he was to resume all 
the dignity of the station he had once held ; while he gave 
the public what he had hitherto resolutely refused, — some 
account of himself and his own life. Layton turned away 
impatiently at these details ; they were all associated with 
too much that pained to interest or to please him. 

“The matter is concluded now, and let me hear no more 
of it,” said he, peevishly. “I start at eight.” And with 
this he turned away, leaving no excuse to his host to re- 
main, or resume an unpalatable subject. 

“Your wagon shall be here at the hour, and a smart pair 
of horses to bowl you along, sir,” said Heron, too well 
satisfied on the whole to be annoyed by a passing coldness. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


THE LECTURER. 

Alfred Layton’s day dragged drearily along, watching and 
waiting for the hour of departure. Close prisoner as he was, 
the time hung heavily on his hands, without a book or any 
sort of companionship to beguile its weariness. He tried 
various ways to pass the hours ; he pondered over a faintly 
colored and scarce traceable map on the walls. It repre- 
sented America, with all the great western annexations, in 
that condition of vague obscurity in which geographers were 
wont to depict the Arctic regions. He essayed to journalize 
his experiences on the road ; but he lost patience in recording 
the little incidents which composed them. He endeavored 
to take counsel with himself about his future; but he lost 
heart in the inquiry, as he bethought him how little direction 
he had ever given hitherto to his life, and how completely he 
had been the sport of accident. 

He was vexed and angry with himself. It was the first 
time he had been called upon to act by his own guidance for 
months back, and he had made innumerable mistakes in the 
attempt. Had Quackinboss been with him, he well knew all 
these blunders had been avoided. This reflection pained 
him, just as it has pained many a gifted and accomplished 
man to think that life and the world are often more difficult 
than book-learning. 

He was too much out of temper with the town to interest 
himself in what went on beneath his windows, and only 
longed for night, that he might leave it never to return. At 
last the day began to wane, the shadows fell longer across 
the empty street, some cawing rooks swept over the tree- 
tops to their homes in the tall pines, and an occasional 
wagon rolled heavily by, with field implements in it, — sign» 


426 


ONE OF THEM. 


all that +he hours of labor had drawn to a close. “ I shall 
soon be off,” muttered he; “soon hastening away from a 
spot whose memory will be a nightmare to me.” In the 
gray half-light he sat, thinking the thought which has found 
its way into so many hearts. What meaning have these 
little episodes of loneliness? What are the lessons they are 
meant to teach ? Are they intended to attach us more closely 
to those we love, by showing how wearily life drags on in 
absence from them ; or are they meant as seasons of repose, 
in which we may gain strength for fresh efforts ? 

Mr. Heron broke in upon these musings. He came to say 
that crowds were hurrying to the lecture-room, and in a few 
minutes more Lajdon might steal away, and, reaching the 
outskirts of the town, gain the wagon that was to convey 
him to Lebanon. 

“You’ll not forget this place, I reckon,” said he, as he 
assisted Layton to close and fasten up his carpet-bag. 
“You’ll be proud, one of these days, to say, ‘I was there 
some five-and-twenty, or maybe thirty, years back. There 
was only one what you ’d call a first-rate hotel in the town ; 
it was kept by a certain Dan Heron, the man that made 
Bunkumville, who built Briggs Block and the Apollonicon. 
I knew him.’ Yes, sir, I think I hear you sayin’ it.” 

“ I half suspect you are mistaken, my friend,” said Lay- 
ton, peevishly. “ Hive in the hope never to hear the name 
of this place again, as assuredly I am determined never to 
speak of it.” 

“Well, you Britishers can’t help envy, that’s a fact,” said 
Heron, with a sigh that show’ed how deeply he felt this 
unhappy infirmity. “ Take a glass of something to warm 
you, and let ’s be movin’. I ’ll see you safe through the 
town.” 

Layton thankfully accepted his guidance, and, each taking 
a share of the luggage, they set forth into the street. Night 
was now fast falling, and they could move along without 
any danger of detection; but, besides this, there were few 
abroad, the unaccustomed attraction of the lecture-room 
having drawn nearly all in that direction. Little heeding 
the remarks by which Heron beguiled the way, Layton moved 
on, only occupied with the thought of how soon he would be 


THE LECTURER. 


427 


miles away from this unloved spot, when his companion 
suddenly arrested his attention by grasping his arm, as he 
said, “There; did you hear that?*’ 

“ Hear what?” asked Layton, impatiently. 

“ The cheerin’, the shoutin’ ! That’s for old Poll. It’s 
the joy of our folk to see the old boy once more about. It 
would be well for some of our public men if they were half 
as popular in their own States as he is with the people down 
here. There it is again ! ” 

Layton was not exactly in the fit humor to sympathize 
with this success, and neither the lecturer nor his audience 
engaged any large share of his good-will ; he, therefore, 
merely muttered an impatient wish to get along, while he 
quickened his own pace in example. 

“ Well, I never heerd greater applause than that. They ’re 
at it again ! ” 

A wild burst of uproarious enthusiasm at the same moment 
burst forth and filled the air. 

“There ain’t no mocker}^ there, stranger,” said Heron; 
“ that ain’t like the cheer the slaves in the Old World greet 
their kings with, while the police stands by to make a note 
of the men as has n’t yelled loud enough.” This taunt was 
wrung from him by the insufferable apathy of Layton’s 
manner ; but even the bitterness of the sneer failed to excite 
retort. 

“ Is this our shortest road? ” was all the reply he made. 

“ No; this will save us something,” said Heron, with the 
quickness of one inspired by a sudden thought ; and at the 
same instant he turned into a narrow street on his left. 

They walked briskly along for a few minutes without 
speaking, when, suddenly turning the angle of the way, they 
found themselves directly in front of the assembly-room, 
from whose three great doors the light streamed boldly out 
across the great square before it. The place seemed densely 
thronged, and even on the pillars outside persons were 
grouped, anxious at this cheap expedient to participate in 
the pleasure of the lecture. By this time all was hushed and 
quiet, and it was evident by the rapt attention of the audi- 
ence that all were eagerly bent on listening to the words of 
the speaker. 


428 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ Why have we come this way ? *’ asked Layton, peevishly, 
“Jest that you might see that sight yonder, sir,” said 
Heron, calmly; “ that you might carry away with you the 
recollection of a set of hard-worked, horny-handed men, 
laborin’ like Turks for a livin’, and yet ready and willin’ to 
give out of their hard earnin’s to listen to one able to instruct 
or improve ’em. That ’s why you come this way, stranger. 
Ain’t the reason a good one ? ” 

Layton did not reply, but stood watching with deep inter- 
est the scene of silent, rapt attention in the crowded room, 
from which now not the slightest sound proceeded. Drawn 
by an attraction he could not explain, he slowly mounted the 
steps and gained a place near the door, but from which he 
was unable to catch sight of the lecturer. He was speaking ; 
but, partly from the distance, and in part from the low tones 
of his voice, Layton could not hear his words. Eager to 
learn by what sort of appeal an audience like this could be 
addressed, — curious to mark the tone by which success was 
achieved, — he pushed vigorously onward till he reached 
one of the columns that supported the roof of the hall, and 
which, acting as a conductor, conveyed every syllable to his 
ears. The lecturer’s voice, artificially raised to reach the 
limits of the room, was yet full, strong, and sonorous, and 
it was managed with all the skill of a practised speaker. He 
had opened his address by mentioning the circumstances 
which had then brought him before them. He explained 
that but from an adverse incident — a passing indisposition 
— they were on that night to have heard one of those accom- 
plished speakers who had won fame and honor in the old 
country. There was a reserve and delicacy in the mention 
of the circumstances by which he became the substitute for 
this person that struck Layton forcibly ; he was neither pre- 
pared for the sentiment nor the style of the orator; but, 
besides, there was in the utterance of certain words, and in 
an occasional cadence, something that made his heart beat 
quicker, and sent a strange thrill through him. 

The explanation over, there was a pause, — a pause of 
silence so perfect that as the speaker laid down the glass of 
water he had been drinking, the sound was heard throughout 
the room. He now began, his voice low, his words measured, 


THE LECTURER. 


429 


his manner subdued. Layton could not follow him through- 
out, but only catch enough to perceive that he was giving a 
short sketch of the relative conditions of England and Ire- 
land antecedent to the Union. He pictured the one, great, 
rich, powerful, and intolerant, with all the conscious pride 
of its own strength, and the immeasurable contempt for 
whatever differed from it ; the other, bold, daring, and defi- 
ant, not at all aware of its inability to cope with its more 
powerful neighbor in mere force, but reposing an unbounded 
trust in its superior quickness, its readiness of resource, its 
fertility of invention. He dwelt considerably on those Cel- 
tic traits by which he claimed for Irishmen a superiority in 
all those casualties of life which demand promptitude and 
ready-wittedness. 

“ The gentleman who was to have occupied this chair to- 
night,*’ said he, raising his voice, so as to be heard through- 
out the room, “ would, I doubt not, have given you a very 
different portrait, and delivered, a very different judgment. 
You would at this moment have been listening to a descrip- 
tion of that great old country we are all so proud of, en- 
deavoring, with all the wise prudence of a careful mother, 
to train up a wayward and capricious child in the paths of 
virtue and obedience. But you will bear more patiently with 
me ; you will lend me a more favorable hearing and a kind- 
lier sympathy, for America, too, was a runaway daughter, 
and though it was only a Gretna Green match you first made 
with Freedom, you have lived to see the marriage solemnized 
in all form, and acknowledged by the whole world.” 

When the cheer which greeted these words had subsided, 
he went on to glance at what might possibly have been the 
theme of the other lecturer : “ I am told,” said he, — “ for I 
never saw him, — that he was a young, a very young man. 
But to speak of the scenes to which I am coming, it is not 
enough to have read, studied, and reflected. A man should 
have done more ; he ought to have seen, heard, and acted. 
These confessions are bought dearly, for it is at the price of 
old age I can make them ; but is it not worth old age to 
have heard Burke in all the majestic grandeur of his great 
powers, — to have listened to the scathing whirlwind of 
Grattan’s passion, — to have sat beneath the gallery when 


430 


ONE OF THEM. 


Flood denounced him, and that terrible duel of intellect took 
place, far more moving than the pistol encounter that fol- 
lowed it? Ay, I knew them all ! I have jested with Parsons, 
laughed with Toler, laughed and wept both with poor Curran. 
Toil may find it difficult to believe that he who now addresses 
you should ever have moved in the class to which such men 
pertained. You here, whose course of life, sustained by 
untiring toil and animated by a spirit of resolute courage, 
moves ever upward, who are better to-day than yesterday, 
and will to-morrow be farther on the road than to-day, who 
labor the soil of which your grandchildren will be the proud 
possessors, may have some difficulty in tracing a career of 
continued descent, and will be slow to imagine how a man 
could fall from a station of respectability and regard, and 
be — such as I am ! ” 

Just as the speaker had uttered these words, a cry, so wild 
and piercing as to thrill through every heart, resounded 
through the building; the* great mass of men seemed to 
heave and swell like the sea in a storm. It was one of those 
marvellous moments in which human emotions seem whis- 
pered from breast to breast, and men are moved by a strange 
flood of sympathy; and now the crowd opened, like a cleft 
wave, to give passage to a young man, who with a strength 
that seemed supernatural forced his way to the front. There 
was that in his wild, excited look that almost bespoke in- 
sanity, while he struggled to effect his passage. 

Astonished by the scene of commotion in front of him, 
and unable to divine its cause, the lecturer haughtily asked, 
“Who comes here to disturb the order of this meeting?” 
The answer was quickly rendered, as, springing over the rail 
that fenced the stage, Alfred cried out, “My father! my 
father ! ” and, throwing his arms around him, pressed him to 
his heart. As for the old man, he stood stunned and speech- 
less for a moment, and then burst into tears. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


OF BYGONES. 

Were we at the outset instead of the close of our journey, 
we could not help dwelling on the scene the lecture-room 
presented as the discovery became whispered throughout the 
crowd. Our goal is, however, now almost in sight, and we 
must not tarry. We will but record one thought, as we say 
that they who were accustomed to associate the idea of fine 
sympathies with fine clothes and elegance of manner, would 
have been astonished at the instinctive delicacy and good 
breeding of that dense mass of men. Many were disap- 
pointed at the abrupt conclusion of a great enjoyment, nearly 
all were moved by intense curiosity to know the history of 
those so strangely brought together again, and yet not one 
murmured a complaint, not one obtruded a question ; but 
with a few words of kindly greeting, a good wish, or a 
blessing, they stole quietly away and left the spot. 

Seated side by side in a room of the inn, old Layton and 
his son remained till nigh daybreak. How much had they 
to ask and answer of each other ! Amidst the flood of ques- 
tions poured forth, anything like narrative made but sorry 
progress ; but at length Alfred came to hear how his father 
had been duped by a pretended friend, cheated out of his 
discovery, robbed of his hard-won success, and then de- 
nounced as an impostor. 

“This made me violent, and then they called me mad. 
A little more of such persecution and their words might have 
come true. 

“ I scarcely yet know to what I am indebted for my liber- 
ation. I was a patient in Swift’s Hospital, when one day 
came the Viceroy to visit it, and with him came a man I had 
met before in society, but not over amicably, nor with such 


432 


ONE OF THEM. 


memories as could gratify. ‘ Who is this ? ’ cried he, as he 
saw me at work in the garden. ‘ I think I remember his 
face.’ The keeper whispered something, and he replied, 
* Ah ! indeed ! ’ while he drew near where I was digging. 
‘ What do you grow here ? ’ asked he of me, in a half-care- 
less tone. ‘ Madder,’ shouted I, with a yell that made him 
start; and then, recovering himself, he hastened off to 
report the answer to the Viceroy. 

“ They both came soon after to where I was. The Vice- 
roy, with that incaution which makes some people talk before 
the insane as though they were deaf, said, in my hearing, 

‘ And so you tell me he was once a Fellow of Trinity ? ’ ‘Yes, 
my Lord,’ said I, assuming the reply, ‘ a Regius Professor 
and a Medallist, now a Madman and a Pauper. The con- 
verse is the gentleman at your side. He began as a fool, 
and has ended as a Poor Law Commissioner ! ’ They both 
turned away, but I cried out, ‘ Mr. Ogden, one word with 
you before you go.’ He came back. ‘ I have been placed 
here,’ said I, ‘ at the instance of a man who has robbed me. 
I am not mad, but I am friendless. The name of my per- 
secutor is Holmes. He writes himself Captain Nicholas 
Holmes — ’ 

“ He would not hear another word, but hurried away 
without answering me. I know no more than that I was 
released ten days after, — that I was turned out in the streets 
to starve or rob. My first thought was to find out this man 
Holmes. To meet and charge him with his conduct towards 
me, in some public place, would have been a high vengeance ; 
but I sought him for weeks in vain, and at last learned he 
had gone abroad. 

“ How I lived all that time I cannot tell you; it is all to 
me now like a long and terrible dream. I was constantly in 
the hands of the police, and rarely a day passed that I had 
not some angry altercation with the authorities. I was in 
one of these one morning, when, half stupefied with cold and 
want, I refused to answer further. The magistrate asked, 
‘Has he any friends? Is there no one who takes any in- 
terest in him?’ The constable answered, ‘None, your wor- 
ship ; and it is all the better, he would only heap disgrace on 
them ! ’ 


OF BYGONES. 


433 


“It was then, for the first moment of my life, the full 
measure of all I had become stood plainly before me. In 
those few words lay the sentence passed upon my character. 
From that hour forth I determined never to utter my name 
again. I kept this pledge faithfully, nor was it difficult; 
few questioned, none cared for me. I lived — if that be the 
word for it — in various ways. I compounded drugs for 
chemists, corrected the press for printers, hawked tracts, 
made auction catalogues, and at last turned pyrotechnist to 
a kind of Vauxhall, all the while writing letters home with 
small remittances to your mother, who had died when I was 
in the madhouse. In a brief interval of leisure I went down 
to the North, to learn what I might of her last moments, and 
to see where they had laid her. There was a clergyman 
there who had been kind and hospitable towards me in better 
days, and it was to his house I repaired.” 

He paused, and for some minutes was silent. At length 
he said, — 

“ It is strange, but there are certain passages in my life, 
not very remarkable in themselves, that remain distinct and 
marked out, just as one sees certain portions of landscape by 
the glare of lightning flashes in a thunderstorm, and never 
forgets them after. Such was my meeting with this Mr. 
Millar. He was distributing bread to the poor, with the assist- 
ance of his clerk, on the morning that I came to his door. 
The act, charitable and good in itself, he endeavored to 
render more profitable by some timely words of caution and 
advice ; he counselled gratitude towards those who bestowed 
these bounties, and thrift in their use. Like all men who 
have never known want themselves, he denied that it ever 
came save through improvidence. He seemed to like the 
theme, and dwelt on it with pleasure, the more as the poor 
sycophants who received his alms eagerly echoed back con- 
currence in all that he spoke disparagingly of themselves. I 
waited eagerly till he came to a pause, and then I spoke. 

“ ‘ Now,’ said I, ‘ let us reverse this medal, and read it on 
the other side. Though as poor and wretched as any of 
those about, I have not partaken of your bounty, and I have 
the right to tell you that your words are untrue, your teach- 
ing unsound, and your theory a falsehood. To men like us, 

28 


434 


ONE OF THEM. 


houseless, homeless, and friendless, you may as well preach 
good breeding and decorous manners, as talk of providence 
and thrift. Want is a disease ; it attacks the poor, whose 
constitutions are exposed to it ; and to lecture us against its 
inroads is like cautioning us against cold, by saying “ Take 
care to wear strong boots, — mind that you take your great- 
coat, — be sure that you do not expose yourself to the night 
air.” You would be shocked, would you not, to address such 
sarcastic counsels to such poor, barefoot, ragged creatures 
as we are ? And yet you are not shocked by enjoining things 
fifty times more absurd, five hundred times more difficult. 
Thrift is the inhabitant of warm homesteads, where the 
abundant meal is spread upon the board and the fire blazes 
on the hearth. It never lives in the hovel, where the snow- 
drift lodges in the chimney and the rain beats upon the bed 
of straw ! ’ 

“ ‘ Who is this fellow? ’ cried the Rector, outraged at being 
thus replied to. ‘ Where did he come from ? * 

“ ‘ From a life of struggle and hai-dship,’ said I, ‘ that if 
you had been exposed to and confronted with, you had 
died of starvation, despite all your wise saws on thrift and 
providence.’ 

“‘Gracious mercy!’ muttered he, ‘can this be — ’ and 
then he stopped ; and beckoning me to follow him into an 
inner room, he retired. 

“ ‘ Do I speak to Dr. Layton? ’ asked he, curtly, when we 
were alone. 

“ ‘ I was that man,’ said I. ‘ I am nothing now.’ 

“ ‘ By what unhappy causes have you come to this? ’ 

“ ‘ The lack of that same thrift you were so eloquent 
about, perhaps. I was one of those who could write, speak, 
invent, and discover ; but I was never admitted a brother 
of the guild of those who save. The world, however, has 
always its compensations, and I met thrifty men. Some 
of them stole my writings, and some filched my discover- 
ies. They have prospered, and live to illustrate your pleas- 
ant theory. But I have not come here to make my confes- 
sions ; I would learn of you certain things about what was 
once my home.’ 

“ He was most kind, — he would have been more than kind 


OF BYGONES. 


435 


to me had I let him ; hut I would accept of nothing. I did 
not even break bread under his roof, though I had fasted for 
a day and a half. He had a few objects left with him to 
give me, which I took, — the old pocket-book one of them, — 
and then I went away.” 

The old man’s narrative was henceforth one long series of 
struggles with fortune. He concealed none of those faults 
by which he had so often wrecked his better life. Hating 
and despising the companionship to which his reduced con- 
dition had brought him, he professed to believe there was 
less degradation in drunkenness than in such association. 
Through all he said, in fact, there was the old defiant 
spirit of early days, a scornful rejection of all assistance, 
and even, in failure and misery, a self-reliance that seemed 
invincible. He had come to America by the invitation of a 
theatrical manager, who had failed, leaving him in the direst 
necessity and want. 

The dawn of day found him still telling of his wayward 
life, its sorrows, its struggles, and defeats. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 


THE doctor’s narrative. 

Old Layton never questioned his son whither they were 
going, or for what, till the third day of their journeying 
together. Such, indeed, was the preoccupation of his mind, 
that he travelled along unmindful of new places and new 
people, all his thoughts deeply engaged by one single theme. 
Brief as this interval was, what a change had it worked in 
his appearance ! Instead of the wild and haggard look his 
features used to wear, their expression was calm, somewhat 
stern, perhaps, and such as might have reminded one who had 
seen him in youth of the Herbert Layton of his college days. 
He had grown more silent, too, and there was in his maimer 
the same trait of haughty reserve which once distinguished 
him. His habits of intemperance were abandoned at once, 
and without the slightest reference to motive or intention he 
gave his son to see that he had entered on a new course in 
life. 

“ Have you told me where we are going, Alfred, and have 
I forgotten it? ” said he, on the third day of the journey. 

“ No, father ; so many other things occurred to us to talk 
over that I never thought of this. It is time, however, I 
should tell you. We are going to meet one who would rather 
make your acquaintance than be the guest of a king.” 

The old man smiled with a sort of cold incredulity, and 
his son went on to recount how, in collecting the stray 
papers and journals of the “Doctor,” as they styled him 
between them, this stranger had come to conceive the 
greatest admiration for his bold energy of temperament 
and the superior range of his intellect. The egotism, so long 
dormant in that degraded nature, revived and warmed up 


THE DOCTOR’S NARRATIVE. 


437 


as the youth spoke, and he listened with proud delight at 
the story of all the American’s devotion to him. 

“He is a man of science, then, Alfred?” 

“Nothing of the kind.” 

He is, at least, one of those quick-minded fellows who 
in this stirring country adapt to their purpose discoveries 
they have had no share in making; is he not?” 

“Scarcely even that. He is a man of ordinary faculties, 
many prejudices, but of a manly honesty of heart I have 
never seen surpassed.” 

“Then he is poor,” said the old man, sarcastically. 

“I know little of his circumstances, but I believe they 
are ample.” 

“Take my word for it, boy, they are not,” said the other, 
with a bitter smile. “Fortune is a thrifty goddess, and 
where she bestows a generous nature she takes care it shall 
have nothing to give away.” 

“I trust your precept will not apply to this case, at all 
events. I have been his pensioner for nigh a year back: 
I am so still. I had hoped, indeed, by this project of 
lecturing — ” 

“Nay, nay, boy, no success could come of that. Had 
you been a great name in your own country, and come here 
heralded by honors won already, they would have given 
you a fair hearing and a generous recompense, but they will 
not take as money the unstamped metal; they will not 
stoop to accept what the old country sends forth without 
acknowledgment, as good enough for them. Believe me, 
this race is prouder than our own, and it is not by unworthy 
sneers at them that we shall make them less vainglorious.” 

“I scarcely know them, but for the sake of that one man 
I owe them a deep affection,” said Alfred, warmly. 

“I have a scheme for you,” said the old man, after a 
pause; “but we will talk of it later on. For the present, 
I want you to aid me in a plan of my own. Ever since I 
have been in this country I have endeavored to find out a 
person whose name alone was known to me, and with whom 
I gave a solemn promise to communicate, — a death-bed 
promise it was, and given under no common circumstances. 
The facts were these : — 


438 


ONE OF THEM. 


“I was once upon a time, when practising as a physician 
at Jersey, sent for to attend a patient taken suddenly and 
dangerously ill. The case was a most embarrassing one. 
There were symptoms so incongruous as to reject the notion 
of any ordinary disease, and such as might well suggest the 
suspicion of poisoning, and yet so skilfully and even pa- 
tiently had the scheme been matured, the detection of the 
poison during life was very difficult. My eagerness in the 
inquiry was mistaken by the patient for a feeling of per- 
sonal kindness towards himself, — an error very familiar to 
all medical men in practice. He saw in my unremitting 
attention and hourly watching by his bedside the devotion 
of one like an old friend, and not the scientific ardor of a 
student. 

“It is just possible that his gratitude was the greater, 
that the man was one little likely to conciliate good feel- 
ing or draw any sympathy towards him. He was a hard, 
cold, selfish fellow, whose life had been passed amongst the 
worst classes of play-men, and who rejected utterly all 
thought of truth or confidence in his old associates. I men- 
tion this to show how, in a very few days, the accident of 
my situation established between us a freedom and a frank- 
ness that savored of long acquaintance. 

‘‘ In his conversations with me he confessed that his wife 
had been divorced from a former husband, and, from 
circumstances known to him, he believed she desired his 
death. He told me of the men to whom in particular his 
suspicions attached, and the reasons of the suspicions ; that 
these men would be irretrievably ruined if his speculations 
on the turf were to succeed, and that there was not one of 
them would not peril his life to get sight of his book on the 
coming Derby. I was curious to ascertain why he should 
have surrounded himself with men so obviously his enemies, 
and he owned it was an act prompted by a sort of dogged 
courage, to show them that he did not fear them. Nor was 
this the only motive, as he let out by an inadvertence ; he 
cherished the hope of detecting an intrigue between one of 
his guests and his wife, as the means of liberating himself 
from a tie long distasteful to him. 

“One of the party had associated himself with him in this 


THE DOCTOR’S NARRATIVE. 


439 


project, and promised him all his assistance. Here was a 
web of guilt and treachery, entangled enough to engage a 
deep interest ! For the man himself, I cared nothing ; there 
was in his nature that element of low selfishness that is fatal 
to all sense of sympathy. His thoughts and speculations 
ranged only over suspicions and distrusts, and the only 
hopes he ever expressed were for the punishment of his 
enemies. Scarcely, indeed, did a visit pass in which he did 
not compel me to repeat a solemn oath that the mode of his 
death should be explored, and his poisoners — if there were 
such — be brought to trial. As he drew nigh his last, his 
sufferings gave little intervals of rest, and his mind occa- 
sionally wandered. Even in his ravings, however, revenge 
never left him, and he would break out into wild rhapsodies 
in imitation of the details of justice, calling on the pris- 
oners, and by name, to say whether they would plead guilty 
or not; asking them to stand forward, and then reciting 
with hurried impetuosity the terms of an indictment for mur- 
der. To these there would succeed a brief space of calm 
reason, in which he told me that his daughter — a child by 
a former wife — was amply provided for, and that her for- 
tune was so far out of the reach of his enemies that it lay in 
America, where her uncle, her guardian, resided. He gave 
me his name and address, and in my pocket-book — this 
old and much-used pocket-book that you see — he wrote a 
few tremulous lines, accrediting me to this gentleman as the 
one sole friend beside him in his last struggles. As he 
closed the book, he said, ‘ As you hope to die in peace, 
swear to me not to neglect this, nor leave my poor child a 
beggar.’ And I swore it. 

‘‘His death took place that night; the inquest followed 
on the day after. My suspicions were correct; he had 
died of corrosive sublimate ; the quantity would have killed 
a dozen men. There was a trial and a conviction. One of 
them, I know, was executed, and, if I remember aright, 
sentence of transportation passed on another. The woman, 
however, was not implicated, and her reputed lover escaped. 
My evidence was so conclusive and so fatal that the pris- 
oners’ counsel had no other resource than to damage my 
credit by assailing my character, and in his cross-exam ina- 


440 


ONE OF THEM. 


tion of me he drew forth such details of my former life, and 
the vicissitudes of my existence, that I left the witness- table 
a ruined man. It was not a very difficult task to represent 
a life of poverty as one of ignominy and shame. The next 
day my acquaintances passed without recognizing me, and 
from that hour forth none ever consulted me. In my indig- 
nation at this injustice I connected all who could have in 
any way contributed to my misfortune, and this poor orphan 
child amongst the rest. Had I never been engaged in that 
ill-starred case, my prospects in life had been reasonably 
fair and hopeful. I was in sufficient practice, increasing 
in repute, and likely to succeed, when this calamitous affair 
crossed me. 

“Patience under unmerited suffering was never amongst 
my virtues, and in various ways I assailed those who had 
attacked me. I ridiculed the lawyer who had conducted the 
defence, sneered at his law, exposed his ignorance of chem- 
istry, and, carried away by that , fatal ardor of acrimony I 
never knew how to restrain, I more than suggested that, 
when he appealed to Heaven in the assertion of his client’s 
innocence, he held in his possession a written confession of 
his guilt. For this an action of libel was brought against 
me; the damages were assessed at five hundred pounds, and 
I spent four years in a jail to acquit the debt. Judge, then, 
with what memories I ever referred to that event of my life. 
It was, perhaps, the one solitary incident in which I had 
resisted a strong temptation. I was offered a large bribe 
to fail in my analysis, and yet it cost me all the prosperity 
it had taken years of labor to accomplish! 

“Imprisonment had not cooled my passion. The first 
thing which I did when free was to dramatize the trial for 
one of those low pot-houses where Judge and Jury scenes 
are represented; and so accurately did I caricature my 
enemy, the counsel, that he was actually laughed out of 
court and ruined. If I could have traced the other actors in 
the terrible incident, I would have pursued them with like 
rancor; but I could not: they had left England, and gone 
Heaven knows where or how I As to the orphan girl, whose 
interest I had sworn to watch over, any care for her now 
would only have insulted my own misery; my rage was 


THE DOCTOK’S NARRATIVE. 


441 


blind and undiscriminating, and I would not be guided by 
reason. It was, therefore, in a spirit of unreflecting ven- 
geance that I never took any steps regarding her, but pre- 
served, even to this hour, a letter to her guardian, — it is 
there, in that pocket-book, — which might perhaps have 
vindicated her right to wealth and fortune. ‘ No,’ thought 
I, ‘ they have been my ruin ; I will not be the benefactor of 
one of them ! ’ 

“I kept my word; and even when my own personal dis- 
tresses were greatest, I would not have raised myself out of 
want at the price of relinquishing that revenge. I have 
lived to think and feel more wisely,” said he, after a pause; 
“I have lived to learn the great lesson that every mishap of 
my life was of my own procuring, and that self-indulgence 
and a vindictive spirit are enough to counterbalance tenfold 
more than all the abilities I ever possessed. The world 
will no more confide its interests to men like me than they 
will take a tiger for a house-dog. I want to make some 
reparation for this wrong, Alfred. I want to seek out this 
person I have spoken of, and, if this girl still live, to place 
her in possession of her own. You will help me in this, 
will you not ? ” 

It was not without a burning impatience that young 
Layton had listened to his father’s narrative; he was eager 
to tell him that his friend the Colonel had already addressed 
himself to the enterprise, all his interests being engaged by 
the journals and letters he had collected when in Ireland. 
Alfred now, in a few hurried words, related all this, and 
told how, at that very hour, Quackinboss was eagerly prose- 
cuting the inquiry. “He has gone down to Norfolk in 
search of this Winthrop,” said he. 

“He will not find him there,” said old Layton. “He left 
Norfolk, for the Far West, two years back. He settled at 
Chicago, but he has not remained there. So much I have 
learned, and it is all that is known about him.” 

“Let us go to Chicago, then,” said Alfred. 

“It is what I would advise. He is a man of sufficient 
note and mark to be easily traced. It is a well-known name, 
and belongs to a family much looked up to. These are my 
credentials, if I should ever chance to come up with him.” 


442 


ONE OF THEM. 


As he spoke, he unclasped a very old and much- worn leather 
pocket-book, searching through whose pages he at last 
found what he sought for. It was a leaf, scrawled over in 
a trembling manner, and ran thus: “Consult the bearer of 
this. Dr. Layton, about Clara; he is my only friend at this 
dreadful hour, and he is to be trusted in all things. Watch 
well that they who have murdered me do not rob her. He 
will tell you — ” It concluded thus abruptly, but was signed 
firmly, “Godfrey Hawke, Nest, Jersey,” with the date; and 
underneath, “To Harvey Winthrop, Norfolk, U. S.” 

“This would be a meagre letter of credit, Alfred, to most 
men; but I have heard much of this same Winthrop. All 
represent him as a fine-hearted, generous fellow, who has 
done already much to trace out his niece, and restore to 
her what she owns. If we succeed in discovering him, I 
mean to offer my services to search out the girl. I saw, 
a short time before I left England, one of the men who were 
implicated in the murder. I knew him at once. The threat 
of reviving the old story of shame will soon place him in my 
power, if I can but find him; and through him 1 am confi- 
dent we shall trace her.’* 

To understand the ardor with which the old man entered 
upon this inquiry, one must have known the natures of those 
men to whom the interest of such a search has all the capti- 
vation of a game. It was, to his thinking, like some case 
of subtle analysis, in which the existence of a certain ingre- 
dient was to be tested; it was a problem requiring all his 
acuteness to solve, and he addressed himself to the task with 
energy and zeal. The young man was not slow to associate 
himself in the enterprise ; and in his desire for success there 
mingled generous thoughts and more kindly sympathies, 
which assuredly did not detract from the interest of the 
pursuit. 

The theme engrossed all their thoughts ; they discussed it 
in every fashion, speculated on it in every shape, pictured 
to themselves almost every incident and every stage of the 
inquiry, imagining the various obstacles that might arise, 
and planning how to overcome them. Thus journeying they 
arrived at Chicago, but only to learn that Winthrop had left 
that city, and was now established farther to the westward, 


THE DOCTOR’S NARRATIVE. 


443 


at a place called Gallina. Without halting or delay they 
started for Gallina. The road was a new and a bad one, 
the horses indifferent, and the stages unusually long. It was 
on the fourth evening of the journey that they arrived at a 
small log-house on the skirt of a pine wood, at which they 
were given to expect fresh horses. They were disappointed, 
however, for the horses had already been sent to bring up 
two travellers from Gallina, and who had taken the precau- 
tion of securing a rapid transit. 

^‘We are here, then, for the night,” said old Layton, with 
a faint sigh, as he endeavored to resign himself to the 
delay. 

“ Here they come ! ” said the host of the log-hut, as the 
rattle of a heavy wagon was heard from the dense wood. 

Our sheriff don’t let the moss grow under his feet.' Listen 
to the pace he ’s coming.” 

Seated, with his son beside him, on the wooden bench 
before the door, the old man watched the arrival of the new- 
comers. The first to descend from the wagon was a man 
somewhat advanced in life, but hale and stout, with a well- 
bronzed face, and every semblance of a vigorous health. 
He saluted the host cordially, and was received with a sort 
of deference only accorded to men of official station. He 
was followed by a younger man, but who displayed, as he 
moved, evident signs of being fatigued by the journey. 

“Come, Seth,” said the elder, “let us see what you have 
got for our supper, for we must be a-moving briskly.” 

“Well, sheriff, there ain’t much,” said the host; “and 
what there is you ’ll have to share with the two gentlemen 
yonder; they’ve just come East, and are waitin’ for you to 
get a morsel to eat.” 

“Always glad to chance on good company,” said the 
sheriff, saluting the strangers as he spoke ; and while they 
were interchanging their greetings, the host laid the table, 
and made preparation for the meal. “I must look after 
my fellow-traveller,” said the sheriff; “he seems so tired 
and jaded. I half fear he will be unable to go on to-night.” 

He speedily returned with good tidings of his friend, and 
soon afterwards the party took their places at the supper- 
table. 


444 


ONE OF THEM. 


The sheriff, like his countrymen generally, was frank and 
outspoken ; he talked freely of the new-settled country, its 
advantages and its difficulties, and at last, as the night 
closed in, he made another visit to his friend. 

“All right, Seth,” said he, as he came back; “we shall 
be able to push on. Let them ‘ hitch ’ the nags as soon as 
may be, for we ’ve a long journey before us.” 

“You’re for the Lakes, I reckon?” said Seth, in- 
quiringly. 

“Farther than that.” 

“Up to Saratoga and the Springs, maybe?” 

“Farther still.” 

“Well, you ain’t a-goin’ to New York at this time of 
year, sheriff?” 

“That’ am I, and farther still, Seth; I am going to the old 
country, where I haven’t been for more than thirty years, 
and where I never thought to go again.” 

“You might visit worse lands, sir,” said old Layton, half 
resentfully. 

“You mistook my meaning, stranger,” said the other, “if 
you thought my words reflected on England. There is only 
one land I love better.” 

The honest speech reconciled them at once, and with a 
hearty shake-hands and a kindly wished good journey, they 
separated. 

“ Did you remark that man who accompanied the sheriff? ” 
said Layton to his son, as they stood at the door watching 
the wagon while it drove away. 

“Not particularly,” said Alfred. 

“Well, I did my best to catch sight of him, but I could 
not. It struck me that he was less an invalid than one 
who wanted to escape observation; he wore his hat 
slouched over his eyes, and covered his mouth with his 
hand when he spoke.” 

The young man only smiled at what he deemed a mere 
caprice of suspicion, and the subject dropped between them. 
After a while, however, the father said, — 

“What our host has just told me strengthens my impres- 
sion. The supposed sick man ate a hearty supper, and 
drank two glasses of stiff brandy-and-water. 


THE DOCTOR’S NARRATIVE. 


445 


^‘And if he did, can it concern us, father?” said Alfred, 
smiling. 

“Yes, boy, if we were the cause of the sudden indisposi- 
tion. He was tired, perhaps, when he arrived, but I saw 
no signs of more than fatigue in his movements, and I 
observed that, at the first glance towards us, he hurried into 
the inner room and never reappeared till he left. I ’m not 
by any means certain that the fellow had not his reasons 
for avoiding us.” 

Rather treating this as the fancy of one whose mind had 
been long the prey of harassing distrusts than as founded 
on calmer reason, Alfred made no answer, and they sepa- 
rated for the night without recurring to the subject. 

It was late on the following day they reached Gallina. 
The first question was, if Harvey Winthrop lived there? 
“Yes; he is our sheriff,” was the answer. They both 
started, and exchanged looks of strange meaning. 

“And he left this yesterday? ” asked old Layton. 

“Yes, sir. An Englishman came two days back with 
some startling news for him, — some say of a great fortune 
left him somewhere, — and he ’s off to England to make out 
his claim.” 

Old Layton and his son stood speechless and discon- 
certed. These were the two travellers who had passed them 
at the log-hut, and thus had they spent some hours, without 
knowing it, in the company of him they had been travelling 
hundreds of miles to discover. 

“And his friend knew us, and avoided us, Alfred,” said 
old Layton. “Mark that fact, boy, and observe that, 
where there is ground for fear in one heart, there is reason 
for hope in some other. We must follow them at once.” 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


A HAPPY ACCIDENT. 

Having written a hurried letter to Quackinboss acquainting 
him with the causes which should prevent him from keeping 
his rendezvous at St. Louis, and informing him how he had 
met with his father, he briefly mentioned that they were 
about to return to New York with all speed, in the hope of 
coming up with Winthrop before he sailed for England. 
“ Come what may,” he added, “ we shall await you there. 
We long to meet you, and add your counsels to our own.” 
This letter he addressed to St. Louis, and posted at once. 

It was ten days after this they reached New York. Their 
journey had been delayed by a series of accidents, — a rail- 
road smash at Detroit amongst the number ; and when they 
arrived at the capital, it was to learn that the “Asia” had 
sailed that very morning for Liverpool, and at the agent's 
office they found that Mr. Harvey Winthrop was a passenger, 
and with him a certain Mr. Jacob Trover. 

“Trover!” repeated Alfred, “ he came out in the same 
ship with us, and it was in his company Quackinboss went 
down to the South, fully convinced that the man was the 
agent in some secret transaction.” 

As he stood looking at the name on the agent’s list with 
that unreasoning steadfastness that in a difficulty often 
attaches us to the incident which has first awakened us to a 
sense of embarrassment, he heard a well-remembered voice 
behind him exclaim, “What! sailed this mornin’ ? Well, 
darn me considerable, if that ain’t takin’ the ropes of us ! ” 
He turned, and it was Quackinboss. After the heartiest of 
greetings on both sides, Alfred presented his father to his 
friend. 


A HAPPY ACCIDENT. 


447 


“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, impressively, “there ain’t 
that man livin’ I want to shake the hand of as I do yours. 
I know you, sir, better, mayhap, than that youth beside you. 
I have studied your character in your writin’s, and I ’m here 
to say there ain’t your superior, if there be your equal, in 
your country or mine.” 

“ This opinion will make our intimacy very difficult,” said 
the old man, smiling. “I can scarcely hope to keep up the 
delusion, even for twenty-four hours.” 

“Yes, sir, you can,” replied the Colonel; “jest talk the 
way you write.” 

“You have seen this, I suppose?” said Alfred, pointing 
to the list of the lately departed passengers, and desirous of 
engaging his friend in another theme. 

“ Yes, and gone with Winthrop too,” said the Colonel. 
“You would n’t believe how he doubled on me, that man 
Trover. I thought I had him too. We were a- tra veilin’ 
together as thick as thieves, a-tellin’ each other all our by- 
gones in life and our plans for the future, and at last as 
good as agreed we ’d go partners in a mill that was for sale, 
about three miles from Carthage. But he wanted to see the 
water-power himself, and so we left the high-road, and set 
out to visit it. At our arrival, as we was gettin’ out of the 
wagon, he sprained his ankle, and had to be helped into 
the house. 

“ ‘I am afraid,’ said he, ‘there’s more mischief than a 
sprain here; have you any skill as a surgeon?’ 

“ ‘ Well,’ said I, ‘ I ain’t so bad about a fracture or dislo- 
cashin, and, what ’s better, I ’ve got a note-book with me full 
of all manner of receipts for washes and the like.’ It was 
your journal. Dr. Layton, that I spoke of. It was, as you 
may remember, filled with hints about useful herbs and odd 
roots, and so on, and there was all about that case of a man 
called Hawke as was poisoned at Jersey, — a wonderful trial 
that had a great hold upon me, as your son will tell you 
another time, — but I did n’t think of that at the moment ; 
but turnin’ to the part about sprains, I began to read him 
what you said : ‘ “ You must generally leech at first,” says 
he,’ I began; ‘ “ particularly where there is great pain with 
swellin’.” ’ 


448 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ ‘ Ah ! I thought so,* sighed he ; ‘ only how are we to get 
leeches in a place like this, and who is to apply them? * 

“ ‘ I *11 engage to do both within half an hour,’ said I ; and 
I put on my hat and set out. 

“Now, I war n’t sorry, you see, for the accident. I 
thought to myself, ‘ Here ’s a crittur goin’ to be laid up ten 
days or a fortnight; I’ll have all the care o’ him, and it’s 
strange if he won’t let out some of his secrets between whiles. 
I ’m curious to know what ’s a-brought him out here ; he ’s 
not travellin’ like one afraid of being pursued ; he goes 
about openly and fearlessly, but he ’s always on the sharp, 
like a fellow that had somethin’ on his mind, if one could 
only come at it. If there ’s anythin’ one can be sure of, it 
is that a man with a heavy conscience will try to relieve him- 
self of the load ; he ’s like a fellow always changin’ the 
ballast of his boat to make her sail lighter, or a crittur that 
will be a-movin’ his saddle, now on the withers, now on the 
oroup, but it won’t do, never a bit, when there ’s a sore back 
underneath.’ It was reflectin’ over these things I fell into a 
sort of dreamy way, and did n’t remember about the leeches 
for some time. At last I got ’em, and hastened back to the 
inn. 

“ ‘ There ’s a note for you, sir, at the bar,’ said the land- 
lord. I took it, and read : — 

“ ‘ Dear Colonel, — Thinking a little fresh air might serve me, 
I have gone out for a short drive. — Yours, till we meet again, 

“ ‘ J. T.' 

“Yes, sir, he was off; and worse, too, had carried away 
with him that great book with all the writin’ in, and that 
account of Hawke’s poisonin’. I started in pursuit as quick 
as they could get me a wagon hitched, but I suppose I took 
the wrong road. I went to Utica, and then turned north as 
far as Albany, but I lost him. Better, perhaps, that I did 
so; I was riled considerable, and I ain’t sure that I might n’t 
have done somethin’ to be sorry for. Ain’t it wonderful 
how ill one takes anythin’ that reflects on one’s skill and 
craftiness ? — just as if such qualities were great ones ; I be- 
lieve, in my heart, we are readier to resent what insults our 
supposed cleverness than what is an outrage on our honesty. 


A HAITY ACCIDENT. 


449 


Be that as it may, I never came up with him after, nor 
heard of him, till I read his name in that sheet.** 

“His theft of that book, connected with his companion- 
ship with Winthrop, suggests strongly the thought that 
his business here is the same as our own,** said the doctor. 

“That*s the way I reasoned it too,*’ said the Colonel. 

It is not impossible, besides, that he had some suspicion 
of your own object in this journey. Did the name of Win- 
throp ever come up in conversation between you ? ** 

“Yes. I was once describin’ my brother’s location down 
in Ohio, — I did it a purpose to see if he would show any 
signs of interest about Peddar’s Clearin’ s and Holt’s Acre, 
— and then I mentioned, as if by chance, one Harvey 
Winthrop. 

“ ‘ Oh, there was a man of that name in Liverpool once,’ 
said he, ‘ but he died about two years gone. * 

“ ‘ Did he? * said I, lookin’ him hard. 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said he, — ‘ of a quinsy.’ 

“It was as good as a play the way we looked at each other 
arter this. It was jest a game of chess, and I said, ‘ Move,’ 
and he said, ‘ It ain’t me to move, — it ’s your turn.* And 
there we was.” 

“The fellow was shrewd, then?” 

“Yes, sir, arter his fashion.” 

“We must follow him, that’s certain. They will reach 
Liverpool by the 10th or 12th. When can we sail from 
this?” 

“There’s a packet sails on Wednesday next; that’s the 
earliest.” 

“That must do, then. Let them be active as they may, 
they will scarcely have had time for much before we are 
up with them.” 

“It’s as good as a squirrel -hunt,” said Quackinboss. 
“I’m darned if it don’t set one’s blood a-bilin’ out of sheer 
excitement. What do you reckon this chap ’s arter?” 

“He has, perhaps, found out this girl, and got her to 
make over her claim to this property; or she may have died, 
and he has put forward some one to personate her; or it is 
not improbable he may have arranged some marriage with 
himself, or one of his friends, for her.” 

29 


450 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Then it ain’t anythin’ about the murder?” asked the 
Colonel, half disappointedly. 

“Nothing whatever; that case was disposed of years 
ago. Whatever guilt may attach to those who escaped, the 
law cannot recognize now. They were acquitted, and they 
are innocent.” 

“That may be good law, sir, but it ’s strange justice. If 
I owed you a thousand dollars, and was too poor to pay it, 
I ’m thinkin’ you ’d have it out of me some fine day when I 
grew rich enough to discharge the debt.” 

Layton shook his head in dissent at the supposed parallel. 

“Ain’t we always a-talkin’ about the fallibility of our 
reason and the imperfection of our judgments? And what 
business have we, then, to say, ‘ There, come what will to- 
morrow of evidence or proof, my mind is made up, and 
I ’m determined to know nothin’ more than I know now ’ ? ” 

“What say you to the other side of the question, — that 
of the man against whom nothing is proven, but who, out 
of the mere obscurity that involves a crime, must live and 
die a criminal, just because there is no saying what morn- 
ing may not bring an accusation against him ? As a man 
who has had to struggle through a whole life against ad- 
verse suspicions, I protest against the doctrine of not 
proven ! The world is too prone to think the worst to make 
such a practice anything short of an insufferable tyranny.” 

With a delicacy he was never deficient in, Quackinboss 
respected the personal application, and made no reply. 

“Calumny, too,” continued the old man, whose passion 
was now roused, “is conducted on the division-of-labor 
principle. One man contributes so much, and another adds 
so much more; some are clever in suggesting the motive, 
some indicate the act; others are satisfied with moralizing 
over human frailties, and display their skill in showing 
that the crime was nothing exceptional, but a mere illustra- 
tion of the law of original sin. And all these people, be it 
borne in mind, are not the bad or the depraved, but rather 
persons of reputable lives, safe opinions, and even good in- 
tentions. Only imagine, then, what the weapon becomes 
when wielded by the really wicked. I myself was hunted 
down by honorable men, — gentlemen all of them, and of 


A HAPPY ACCIDENT. 451 

great attainments. Has he told you my story ? ” said he, 
pointing to his son. 

“Yes, sir; and I only say that it couldn’t have happened 
in our country here.” 

“To be sure it could,” retorted the other, quickly; “the 
only difference is, that you have made Lynch law an institu- 
tion, and we practise it as a social accident.” 

Thus chatting, they reached the hotel where they were to 
lodge till the packet sailed. 

The short interval before their departure passed off agree- 
ably to all. Quackinboss never wearied at hearing the 
doctor talk, and led him on to speak of America, and what 
he had seen of the people, with an intense interest. 

“Could you live here, sir?” asked Quackinboss, at the 
close of one of these discussions. 

“It is my intention to live and die here,” said the doctor. 
“I go back to England now, that this boy may pay off a 
long load of vengeance for me. Ay, Alfred, you shall hear 
my long-cherished plan at once. I want you to become a 
fellow of that same University which drove me from its 
walls. They were not wrong, perhaps, — at least, I will 
not now dispute their right, — but I mean to be more in the 
right than they were. My name shall stand upon their 
records associated with their proudest achievements, and 
Layton the scholar, Layton the discoverer, eclipse the mem- 
ory of Layton the rebel.” 

This was the dream of many a year of struggle, defeat, 
and depression; and now that it was avowed, it seemed 
as though his heart were relieved of a great load of care. 
As for Alfred, the goal was one to stimulate all his ener- 
gies, and he pledged himself fervently to do his utmost to 
attain it. 

“And I must be with you the day you win,” cried Quack- 
inboss, with an enthusiasm so unusual with him that both 
Layton and his son turned their glances towards him, and 
saw that his eyes were glassy with tears. Ashamed of his 
emotion, he started suddenly up, saying, “I’ll go and book 
our berths for Wednesday next.” 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


AT ROME. 

Let us now return to some of the actors in our drama who 
for a while back have been playing out their parts behind 
the scenes. The Heathcote family, consisting of Sir Wil- 
liam and his ward, May Leslie, Mrs. Morris and her late 
husband’s friend. Captain Holmes, were domesticated in a 
sumptuous residence near the “Pincian,” but neither going 
out into the world nor themselves receiving visitors. Sir 
William’s health, much broken and uncertain as it was, 
formed the excuse for this reclusion ; but the real reason was 
the fact, speedily ascertained by the Captain, and as 
speedily conveyed to his daughter, that “Society” had 
already decided against them, and voted the English family 
at the Palazzo Balbi as disfranchised. 

Very curious and very subtle things are the passively 
understood decrees of those who in each city of Europe call 
themselves the “World.” The delicate shades by which 
recognition is separated from exclusion ; the fine tints, per- 
ceptible only to the eyes of fashion, by which certain frail- 
ties are relieved from being classed with grave derelictions ; 
the enduring efficacy of the way in which the smell of the 
roses will cling to the broken vase of virtue and rescue its 
fragments from dishonor, — are all amongst the strangest 
and most curious secrets of our civilization. 

Were it not for a certain uniformity in the observances, 
one might be disposed to stigmatize as capricious the 
severity occasionally displayed here, while a merciful lenity 
was exhibited there; but a closer examination will show 
that some fine discriminating sense is ever at work, capable 
of distinguishing between genteel vice and the wickedness 
that forgets conventionalities. As in law, so in morals, no 


AT ROME. 


453 


man need criminate himself, but he who does so by an inad- 
vertence is lost. Now the Heathcotes were rich, and yet 
lived secluded. The world wanted not another count in the 
indictment against them. A hundred stories were circu- 
lated about them. They had come to place the “girl ” in a 
convent. Old Sir William had squandered away all her 
fortune, and the scheme now was to induce her to turn 
Catholic and take the veil. “ The old fool ” — the world is 
complimentary on these occasions — was going to marry 
that widow, whom he had picked up at Leamington or 
Ems or Baden-Baden. If the Captain had not kept the 
Hell in the Circus, he was the veiy double of the man who 
had it. At all events, it was better not to have him in the 
Club ; and so the banker, who was to have proposed, with- 
drew him. 

It may be imagined that some very palpable and suffi- 
cient cause was at work to induce society thus to stand on 
the defensive towards these new^-comers. Nothing of the 
kind. All the evidence against them was shadowy ; all the 
charges such as denied detail. They were an odd set, they 
lived in a strange fashion, they knew nobody ; and to ac- 
cusations like these even spotless integrity must succumb. 

Dressed in a rohe de chamhre that would have made the 
fortune of a French Vaudeville actor, with a gold-tasselled 
fez, and slippers to match, the Captain sat, smoking a 
splendid meerschaum, in a well-cushioned chair, while his 
daughter was engaged at her embroidery, opposite to him. 
Though it was midwinter, the sun streamed in through the 
orange-trees on the terrace, and made a rainbow of the 
spray that dashed from the marble fountain. The room 
itself combined all the sumptuous luxury we understand by 
the word “comfort,” with the graceful elegance of a South- 
ern existence. There were flowers and fresh air, and the 
song of birds to be enjoyed on the softest of sofas and the 
best carpeted of floors. 

A large goblet of some amber-colored drink, in which a 
rock of pure ice floated, stood at the Captain’s elbow, and 
he sipped and puffed, with his head thrown well back, in an 
attitude that to smokers must have some Elysian ecstasy. 
Nor was his daughter the least ornamental part of the situa- 


454 


ONE OF THEM. 


tion ; a morning dress of white muslin, tastefully trimmed 
with sky-blue ribbons, and a rich fall of Brussels lace over 
her head, making a very charming picture of the graceful 
figure that now bent over the embroidery-frame. 

“I tell you it won’t do. Loo,” said he, removing his pipe, 
and speaking in a firm and almost authoritative voice. “I 
have been thinking a great deal over it, and you must posi- 
tively get away from this.” 

“I know that too,” said she, calmly; “and I could have 
managed it easily enough but for this promised visit of 
Charles. He comes through on his way to Malta, and Sir 
William would not hear of anything that risked the chance 
of seeing him.” 

“1 ’d rather risk that than run the hazards we daily do in 
this place,” said he, gravely. 

“You forget, papa, that he knows nothing of these haz- 
ards. He is eager to see his son, for what he naturally 
thinks may be the last time. I ’m sure I did my best to 
prevent the meeting. I wrote to Lord Agincourt; I wrote 
to Charles himself. I represented all the peril the agitation 
might occasion his father, and how seriously the parting 
might affect a constitution so impressionable as his, but to 
no purpose; he coldly replies, ‘ Nothing short of my father’s 
refusal to see me shall prevent my coming to see him,’ or 
‘ embrace him, ’or — I forget the words, but the meaning 
is, that come he will, and that his arrival may be counted 
on before the end of the week.” 

“What stay will he make? ” 

“He speaks of three or four days at farthest. We can 
learn the limit easily enough by the time of the P. and O. 
steamer’s sailing. Ask for it at the banker’s.” 

“I don’t call in there now,” said he, peevishly. “Since 
they took down my name for the Club-ballot, I have not gone 
to the bank.” 

She sighed heavily ; there was more than one care on her 
heart, and that sigh gathered in a whole group of anxieties. 

“They have got up all sorts of stories about us; and it is 
always out of these false attacks of scandal comes the real 
assault that storms the citadel.” 

She sighed again, but did not speak. 


AT ROME. 


455 


“So long as Heathcote keeps the house and sees nobody, 
all may go on well; but let him be about again, able to 
ramble amongst the galleries and churches, he is certain to 
meet some amiable acquaintance, who will startle him with 
a few home truths. I tell you again, we are banqueting 
over a powder-magazine ; and even as to the marriage itself, 
I don’t like it. Are you aware of the amount he is able 
to settle? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read the 
draft. It is neither more nor less than eight thousand 
pounds. Fancy taking such a husband for eight thousand 
pounds! ” 

“You scarcely put the case fairly, papa,” said she, smil- 
ing; “the eight thousand, is the compensation for losing 
him.” 

“Are you in love with him, then?” asked he, with a sar- 
castic twinkle of the eye. 

“I don’t think so, — at least, not to desperation.” 

“It is scarcely for the sake of being ‘ My Lady.’ ” 

“Oh dear, no; that is a snobbery quite beyond me. Now, 
I neither marry for the title, nor the man, nor his money, 
nor his station ; but out of that mass of motives which to 
certain women have the force of a principle. I can explain 
what I mean, perhaps, by an illustration: Were you to tell 
a fashionable physician, in first* rate practice, that if he 
got up out of bed at midnight, and drove off two miles to 
a certain corner of Regent’s Park, where under a particular 
stone he ’d find a guinea, it is more than certain he ’d not 
stir ; but if you sent for the same man to a case of illness, 
he ’d go unhesitatingly, and accept his guinea as the due 
recompense of his trouble. This is duty, or professional 
instinct, or something else with a fine name, but it ’s not 
gold-seeking. There now, make out my meaning out of 
my parable, as best you may. And, after all, papa, I’m 
not quite sure that I intend to marry him.” 

“Why, what do you mean?” 

“Oh, pray don’t be frightened. I merely meant to say 
that there was an eventuality which might rescue me from 
this necessity. I have told you nothing about it hitherto, 
dear papa, because I inherit your own wholesome dislike to 
entertaining my friends with what may turn out mere moon- 


456 


ONE OF THEM. 


shine. Now, however, that the project has a certain vitality 
in it, you shall hear it.” 

Holmes drew his chair close to her, and, laying down his 
pipe, prepared to listen with all attention. 

“If I hate anything,” said she, half peevishly, “it is to 
talk of the bygone, and utter the names of people that I 
desire never to hear again. It can’t be helped, however; 
and here goes. After the events in Jersey, you remember 
I left the island and came abroad. There were all sorts of 
confusion about H.’s affairs. The law had taken posses- 
sion of his papers, placed seals on everything, and resisted 
my application to remove them, on the vexatious plea that 
I was not his wife, and could not administer as such. A 
long litigation ensued, and at last my marriage was ad- 
mitted, and then I took out probate and received a few thou- 
sand pounds, and some little chance property; the bulk of 
his fortune was, however, in America, and settled on Clara 
by a will, which certain writings showed was in the posses- 
sion of her uncle, now nominated to be her guardian, a cer- 
tain Harvey Winthrop, of Norfolk, Virginia. I opened a 
correspondence with him, and suggested the propriety of 
leaving Clara with me, as I had always regarded her as my 
own child, and hinting at the appropriateness of some 
allowance for her maintenance and education. He replied 
with promptitude and much kindness, expressed great sym- 
pathy for my late loss, and made a very liberal settlement 
for Clara. 

“All went on peaceably and well for two years, when one 
morning came a letter from Winthrop of a most alarming 
nature. Without any positive charge, it went on to say that 
he had, for reasons which his delicacy would prefer to spare 
me, decided on himself assuming the guardianship of his 
niece, and that if I would kindly come to London, or name 
any convenient place on the Continent for our meeting, he 
would punctually present himself at the time agreed on. Of 
course I guessed what had occurred, — indeed, it had always 
been a matter of astonishment to me how long I had been 
spared; at all events, I determined on resistance. I wrote 
back a letter, half sorrow, half indignation ; I spoke of the 
dear child as all that remained of consolation to my widowed 


AT ROME. 


457 


heart ; I said that though it was in his competence to with- 
hold from me the little pittance which served to relieve some 
of the pressure of our narrow means, yet I would not sepa- 
rate myself from my darling child, even though at the 
cost of sharing with her a mere sufficiency for support. I 
told him, besides, that he should never hear from me more, 
nor would all his efforts enable him to trace us. It was 
then I became Mrs. Penthony Morris. I suppose Winthrop 
was sorry for his step; at least, by a variety of curious 
advertisements in English papers, he suggested that some 
accommodation might be arranged, and entreated me to 
renew intercourse with him. There were many reasons why 
I could not agree to this. Clara, too, was of great use to 
me. To a lone woman in the world, without any definite 
belongings, a child is invaluable. The advertisements 
were continued, and even rewards offered for such infor- 
mation as might lead to my discovery. All in vain: he 
never succeeded in tracing me, and at length gave up 
the pursuit. 

“I must now skip over some years which have no bearing 
on this incident, and come to a period comparatively recent, 
when, in the transaction of certain purchases of American 
securities, I came unexpectedly on the mention of a new 
railroad line through a district whose name was familiar to 
me. I set myself to think where, when, and how I had 
heard of this place before, and at last remembered it was 

from H , who used to talk of this property as what 

would one day make his daughter a great heiress. My 
moneyed speculations had led me into much intimacy here 
with a banker, Mr. Trover, over whom an accidental dis- 
covery gave me absolute power. It was no less than a for- 
gery he had committed on my name, and of which, before 
relinquishing the right to take proceedings against him, I 
obtained his full confession in writing. With this tie over 
the man, he was my slave; I sent him here and there at 
my pleasure, to buy, and sell, and gain information, and so 
on, and, above all, to obtain a full account of the value of 
this American property, where it lay, and how it was occu- 
pied. It was in the midst of these inquiries came a great 
financial crash, and my agent was obliged to fly. At first 


458 


ONE OF THEM. 


he went to Malta; he came back, but, after a few weeks, 
he set out for the States. He was fully in possession of the 
circumstances of this property, and Clara’s right to it, and 
equally so of my determination that she should never inherit 
it. We had, on one of the evenings he was here, a long 
conversation on the subject, and he cunningly asked me, — 
“ ‘ How was the property settled in reversion ? ’ 

“It was a point I never knew, for I never saw H.’s will. 

The will was made four years before his death; might 
he not have made a later one on his death-bed ? — might he 
not have bequeathed the estate in reversion to yourself in 
case she died? — might she not have died? ’ 

“All these he asked, and all of them had been my own 
unceasing thoughts for years back. It was a scheme I had 
planned and brooded over days and nights long. It was to 
prepare the road for it that I sent away Clara, and, under 
the name of Stocmar, had her inscribed at the Conserva- 
toire of Milan. Was it that Trover had read my secret 
thoughts, or had be merely chanced upon them by mere 
accident? I did not dare to ask him, for I felt that by 
his answer I should be as much in his power as he was in 
mine. 

“ ‘ I have often imagined there might be such a will,’ said 
I ; ‘ there is no reason to suppose it is not in existence. 
Could it not be searched for and found ? ’ 

“He understood me at once, and replied, — 

“ ‘ Have you any of Hawke’s handwriting by you? ’ 

“ ‘ A quantity,’ said I; ‘and it is a remarkable hand, 
very distinctive, and not hard to imitate, — at least, by any 
one skilled in such accomplishments.’ 

“He blushed a little at the allusion, but laughed it off. 

“ ‘ The girl could have died last year ; she might have 
been buried, — where shall we say ? ’ added he, carelessly. 

“ ‘ At Meisner, in the Tyrol,’ said I, catching at the idea 
that just struck me, for my maid died in that place, and I 
had got the regular certificate of her death and burial from 
the Syndic, and I showed him the document. 

“‘This is admirable,’ said he; ‘nothing easier than to 
erase this name and insert another. ’ 

“ ‘I cannot hear of such a thing, Mr. Trover,’ said I; 


AT HOME. 459 

* nor can I, after such a proposal, suffer the paper to leave 
my hands.’ And with this I gave it to him. 

“ ‘ I could not dream of such an act, madam,’ said he, with 
great seriousness; ‘ it would amount to a forgery. Now for 
one last question,’ said he, after a little interval of silence: 
‘ what would you deem a suitable reward to the person who 
should discover this missing will, and restore this property 
to the rightful owner? Would twenty per cent on the value 
appear to you too much ? ’ 

“ ‘ I should say that the sum was a high one, but if the 
individual acquitted himself with all the integrity and all 
the delicacy the situation demanded, never by even an im- 
plication involving any one who trusted him, conducting 
the transaction to’ its end on his own responsibility and by 
his own unaided devices, why, then, it is more than prob- 
able that I would judge the reward to be insufficient.’ 

“ So much, dear papa, will put you in possession of the 
treaty then ratified between us. I was to supply all the 
funds for present expenses; Mr. Trover to incur all the 
perils. He was invested with full powers, in fact, to 
qualify himself for Botany Bay; and I promised to forward 
his views towards a ticket of leave if the worst were to hap- 
pen him. It was a very grave treaty very laughingly and 
playfully conducted. Trover had just tact enough for the 
occasion, and was most jocose wherever the point was a 
perilous one. From the letters and papers in my posses- 
sion, he found details quite ample enough to give him an 
insight into the nature of the property, and also, what he 
deemed of no small importance, some knowledge of the 
character of this Mr. Winthrop, Clara’s uncle. This person 
appeared to be an easy-tempered, good-natured man, not 
diflScult to deal with, nor in any way given to suspicion. 
Trover was very prompt in his proceedings. On the even- 
ing after our conversation he showed me the draft of 
Hawke’s will, dated at Jersey, about eight days before his 
death. It was then, for the first time, I learned that Trover 
knew the whole story, and who I was. This rather discon- 
certed me at first. There are few things more disconcerting 
than to find out that a person who has for a long intercourse 
never alluded to your past history, has been all the while 


460 


ONE OF THEM. 


fully acquainted with it. The way he showed his knowledge 
of the subject was characteristic. In pointing out to me 
Hawke’s signature, he remarked, — 

“‘I have made the witnesses — Towers, who was exe- 
cuted, and Collier, who, I have heard, died in Australia.’ 

“ ‘ How familiar you are with these names, sir! ’ said I, 
curiously. 

“ ‘ Yes, madam,’ said he; ‘ I edited a well-known weekly 
newspaper at that time, and got some marvellous details 
from a fellow who was on the spot. ’ 

“I assure you, papa, though I am not given to tremors, 
I shuddered at having for my accomplice a man that I could 
not deceive as to my past life. It was to be such an open 
game between us that, in surrendering all the advantages of 
my womanly arts, I felt I was this man’s slave, and yet he 
was a poor creature. He had the technical craft for simu- 
lating a handwriting and preparing a false document, but 
was miserably weak in providing for all the assaults that 
must be directed against its authenticity. 

“His plan was, armed with what he called an attested 
copy of H.’s will, to set out for America and discover this 
Mr. Winthrop. Cleverly enough, he had bethought him of 
securing this gentleman’s co-operation by making him a 
considerable inheritor under the will. In fact, he charged 
the estate with a very handsome sum in his favor, and cal- 
culated on all the advantages of this bribe; and without 
knowing it, Mr. Winthrop was to be ‘ one of us.’ 

“He sailed in due time, but I heard no more of him; and, 
indeed, I began to suspect that the two bank-notes I had 
given him, of one hundred each, had been very unprofitably 
invested, when by this day’s post a letter reaches me to say 
that success had attended him throughout. By a mere 
accidental acquaintance on a railroad, he ‘ fell in ’ with — 
that ’s his phrase, which may mean that he stole — some 
very curious documents which added to his credit with Win- 
throp. He describes this gentleman as exactly what he 
looked for, and with this advantage, that having latterly 
been somewhat unfortunate in speculation, he was the more 
eager to repair his fortune by the legacy. He says that only 
one embarrassing circumstance occurred, and this was that 


AT ROME. 


461 


Winthrop determined at once on coming over to England, so 
that the authenticity of the will should be personally ascer- 
tained by him, and all his own proceedings in the matter be 
made sure. ‘ For this purpose,’ he writes, ‘ we shall sail 
from this place by the first steamer for Liverpool, where let 
me have a letter addressed to the Albion to say where you 
are to be found. Winthrop’s first object will be to meet 
you, and you must bethink you well what place you will 
deem most suitable for this purpose. Of course the more 
secluded and private the better. I have explained to him 
that so overwhelmed were you by the terrible event of H.’s 
death you had never entered the world since ; and, in fact, 
so averse to anything that might recall the past that you 
had never administered to the will, nor assumed any of your 
rights to property, and it would be well for him, if he could, 
to arouse you out of this deadly lethargy, and call you back 
to something like existence. This explained why I had 
taken the journey out to America to meet him.’ You will 
perceive, papa, that Mr. Trover knows how to lie ‘ with the 
circumstance,’ and is not Unitarian in his notions of 
falsehood. 

“ I am far from liking this visit of Mr. Winthrop. I wish 
from my heart that his scruples had been less nice, and that 
he had been satisfied to eat his cake without inquiring 
whether every one else had got his share ; but, as he is com- 
ing, we must make the best of it. And now, what advice 
have you to give me? Of course, we cannot suffer him to 
come here.” 

“Certainly not. Loo. We must have out the map, and 
think it over. Does Trover tell you what amount the prop- 
erty may be worth ? ” 

“ He says that there are three lots. Two have been valued 
at something over a million of dollars; the third, if the rail- 
road be carried through it, will be more valuable still. Tt 
is, he says, an immense estate and in high productiveness. 
Let us, however, think of our cards, papa, and not the 
stake; there is much to provide. I have no certificate of 
my marriage with Hawke.” 

“That must be thought of,’.’ said he, musingly. 

“Clara, too, must be thought of,* — married, if possible, 


462 


ONE OF THEM. 


to some one going abroad, — to Australia or New Zealand. 
Perhaps O’Shea.” And she burst out a-laughing at the 
thought. 

“Or Paten. I ’d say Ludlow — ” 

A look of sickly aversion crossed his daughter’s face at 
the suggestion, and she said, — 

“ Nothing on earth would induce me to consent to it.” 

The Captain might have regarded this as a woman’s weak- 
ness, but he said nothing. 

“ It will be very difficult for me to get away at this mo- 
ment too,” said she, after a pause. “ I don’t fancy being 
absent while young Heathcote is here. He will be making 
all manner of inquiries about Clara, — where she is, with 
whom, and for what? If I were on the spot, I could sup- 
press such perquisitions.” 

“ After all, dear Loo, the other is the great event. I 
conclude, if all goes smoothly about this work, you ’ll never 
dream of the marriage with Sir William ? ” 

“Perhaps not,” said she, roguishly. “ I am not so des- 
perately in love as to do an imprudence. There is, however, 
much to be thought of, papa. In a few days more Ludlow 
is to be back here with my letters, more than ever necessary 
at this moment, when any scandal might be fatal. If he 
were to know anything of this accession of fortune, his 
demands would be insupportable.” 

“ No doubt of that. At the same time, if he merely hears 
that your marriage with the Baronet is broken off, he will be 
more tractable. How are you to obtain these letters? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said she, with a stolid look. 

“ Are you to buy them? ” 

“ I don’t know.” 

“ He will scarcely surrender them out of any impulse of 
generosity ? ” 

“I don’t know,” said she, again; and over her features 
there was a sickly pallor that changed all their expression, 
and made her look even years older than she was. He 
looked at her compassionately, for there was that in her face 
that might well have challenged pity. 

“But, Loo, dearest,” said he, encouragingly, “place the 
affair in my hands, and* see if I cannot bring it to a good 
ending.” 


AT KOME. 


463 


‘ ‘ He makes it a condition to treat with none but myself, 
and there is a cowardice in this of which he knows all the 
advantage.” 

“ It must be a question of money, after all. It is a matter 
of figures.” 

“ He would say not. At the very moment of driving his 
hardest bargain he would interpose some reference to what 
he is pleased to call ‘ his feelings.’ I told him that even 
Shylock did not insult his victim with a mock sympathy, nor 
shed false tears over the pain his knife was about to inflict.” 

“ It was not the way to conciliate him. Loo.” 

“ Conciliate him ! Oh, how you know him ! ” She pressed 
her hands over her face as she spoke, and when she withdrew 
them the cheeks were scalded with tears. 

“ Come, come. Loo, this is scarcely like yourself.” 

“ There, it’s over now,” said she, smiling, with a half-sad 
look, as she pushed her hair back, as though to suffer the 
cool air to bathe her forehead. “ Oh dear ! ” sighed she out, 
“ if I only could have foreseen all the perils before me, I 
might have borne with George Ogden, and lived and died 
what the world calls respectable.” 

He gave a little sigh too, which might have meant that he 
agreed with her, or that the alternative was a hard one, or 
that respectability was a very expensive thing for people of 
small means, or a little of all three together, which was most 
probable, since the Captain rarely dealt in motives that were 
not suflSciently mixed. 

“And now, papa,” said she, “use your most ingenious 
devices to show me how I am to answer all these engage- 
ments, and while I meet Mr. Winthrop in Switzerland, con- 
trive also to be on guard here, and on outpost duty with Mr. 
Ludlow Paten.” 

“You ’ll do it, Loo, — you ’ll do it, or nobody else will,” said 
he, sipping his iced drink, and gazing on her approvingly. 

“ What would you say to Bregenz for our rendezvous with 
Winthrop?” said she, bending over the map. “It is as 
quiet and forgotten a spot as any I know of.” 

“ So it is, Loo ; and one of the very few where the English 
never go, or, at least, never sojourn.” 

“I wish we could manage to find a small house or a 


464 


ONE OF THEM. 


cottage there. I should like to be what dramatists call ‘ dis- 
covered’ in a humbly furnished chamber, living with my 
dear old father, venerable in years and virtues.” 

“Well, it ought not to be difficult to manage. If you like, 
I ’ll set off there and make the arrangements. I could start 
this evening.” 

“ How good of you! Let me think a little over it, and I 
will decide. It would be a great comfort to me to have you 
here when Charles Heathcote comes. I might need your 
assistance in many ways, but perhaps — Yes, you had 
better go ; and a pressing entreaty on your part for me to 
hasten to the death-bed of my ‘ poor aunt ’ can be the reason 
for my own hurried departure. Is it not provoking how 
many embarrassments press at the same moment? It is an 
attack front, rear, and on the flanks.” 

“ You ’re equal to it, dear, — you ’re equal to it,” said he, 
with tlie same glance of encouragement. 

“I almost think I should go with you, papa, — take 
French leave of these good people, and evacuate the for- 
tress, — if it were not that next week I expect Ludlow to 
be back here with the letters, and I cannot neglect that. 
Can you explain it to me ? ” cried she, more eagerly, — there is 
not one in this family for whom I entertain the slightest sense 
of regard, — they are all less than indifferent to me, — and 
yet I would do anything, endure anything, rather than they 
should learn my true history, and know all about my past 
life ; and this, too, with the certainty that we were never to 
meet again.” 

“ That is pride, Loo, — mere pride.” 

“ No,” said she, tremulously, “it is shame. The con- 
sciousness that one’s name is never to be uttered but in scorn 
in those places where once it was always spoken of in honor, 
— the thought that the, fair fame we had done so much to 
build up should be a dreary ruin, is one of the saddest the 
heart can feel ; for, let the world say what it will, we often 
give all our energies to hypocrisy, and throw passion into 
what we meant to be mere acting. Well, well, enough of 
moralizing, now for action. You will want money for this 
trip, papa ; see if there be enough there.” And she opened 
her writing-desk, and pushed it towards him. 


AT ROME. 


465 


The Captain took out his double eye-glass, and then, with 
due deliberation, proceeded to count over a roll of English 
notes fresh from the bank. 

“ In funds, I see. Loo,” said he, smiling. 

It is part of the last three hundred I possess in the world. 
I drew it out yesterday, and, as I signed the check, I felt as 
might a sailor going over the side as his ship was sinking. 
Do you know,” said she, hurriedly, “ it takes a deal of 
courage to lead the life I have done.” 

No doubt, — no doubt,” muttered he, as he went on 
counting. “ Forty-five, fifty, fifty-five — ” 

“ Take them all, papa ; 1 have no need of them. Before 
the month ends I mean to be a million naire or ‘ My Lady.’ ” 

“ I hope not the latter. Loo ; I hope sincerely not, dearest. 
It would be a cruel sacrifice, and really for nothing.” 

“ A partnership in an old-established house,” said she, 
with a mocking laugh, “is always something; but I won’t 
prejudge events, nor throw my cards on the table till I 
have lost the game. And d, propos to losing the game, 
suppose that luck should turn against us, — suppose that 
we fail to supply some essential link in this chain of for- 
tune, — suppose that Trover should change his mind and 
sell us, — suppose, in short, anything adverse you please, 
— what means are remaining to you, papa? Have you 
enough to support us in some cheap unfrequented spot 
at home or abroad ? ” 

“ I could get together about two hundred and forty pounds 
a year, not more.” 

“ One could live upon that, could n’t one? ” asked she. 

“ Yes, in a fashion. With a number of privations you have 
never experienced, self-denial in fifty things you have never 
known to be luxuries, with a small house and small habits and 
small acquaintances, one could rub through, but no more.” 

“ Oh, how I should like to try it ! ” cried she, clasping her 
hands together. “ Oh, what would I not give to pass one 
year — one entire year of life — without the ever-present 
terror of exposure, shame, and scorn, — to feel that when 
I lie down to rest at night a knock at the street door 
should not throw me into the cold perspiration of ague, 
or the coming of the postman set my heart a-throbbing, 

30 


466 


ONE OF THEM. 


as though the missive were a sentence on me ! Why can- 
not I have peace like this ? ” 

“Poverty has no peace, my dear Loo. It is the poorest 
of all wars, for it is the pettiest of all objects. It would 
break my heart to see you engaged in such a conflict.” 

And the Captain suffered his eyes to range over the hand- 
some room and its fine furniture, while his thoughts wandered 
to a French cook, and that delicious “ Chateau Margaux ” he 
had tasted yesterday. 

Did she read what was passing in his mind, as, with a touch 
of scorn in her manner, she said, “ Doubtless you know the 
world better,” and left the room? 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


THE PALAZZO BALBI. 

The household of the Palazzo Balbi was unusually busy and 
active. There was a coming and a parting guest. Sir 
William himself was far too much occupied by the thoughts 
of his son’s arrival to bestow much interest upon the depar- 
ture of Captain Holmes. Not that this ingenious gentle- 
man had failed in any of the requirements of his parasitical 
condition, nay, he had daily improved the occasion of his 
presence, and ingratiated himself considerably in the old 
Baronet’s favor; but it is, happily, the lot of such people 
to be always forgotten where the real affections are in play. 
They while away a weary day, they palliate the small 
irritations of daily life, they suggest devices to cheat ennui, 
but they have no share in deeper sentiments ; we neither 
rejoice nor weep with them. 

“Sorry for your friend’s illness!” — “Sincerely trust 
you may find him better! ” — or, “Ah, it is a lady, 1 for- 
got; and that we may soon see you on this side of the 
Alps again ! ” — “ Charming weather for your journey ! ” — 
“ Good-bye, good-bye ! ” 

And with this he shook his hand cordially enough, and 
forgot him. 

“I’m scarcely sorry he’s gone,” said May, “he was so 
deaf ! And besides, papa, he was too civil, — too com- 
plaisant. I own I had become a little impatient of his 
eternal compliments, and the small scraps out of Shelley 
and Keats that he adapted to my address.” 

“All the better for Charley, that,” said the old Baronet. 
“You’ll bear his rough frankness with more forgiveness 
after all this sugary politeness.” He never noticed how this 


468 


ONE OF THEM. 


random speech sent the blood to her cheeks, and made her 
crimson over face and neck ; nor, indeed, had he much time 
to bestow on it, for the servant opened the door at the 
instant, and announced, “ Captain Heathcote.” In a 
moment the son was in his father’s arms. “My boy, my 
dear boy,” was all the old man could say; and Charles, 
though determined to maintain the most stoical calm through- 
out the whole visit, had to draw his hand across his eyes in 
secret. 

“ How well you look, Charley, — stouter and heavier than 
when here. English life and habits have agreed with you, 
boy.” 

“ Yes, sir. If I can manage to keep my present con- 
dition, I ’m in good working trim for a campaign ; and you 
— tell me of yourself.” 

“ There is little to say on that subject. When men live to 
my term, about the utmost they can say is, that they are 
here.” 

Though he tried to utter these words in a half-jocular 
tone, his voice faltered, and his lips trembled ; and as the 
young man looked, he saw that his father’s face was care- 
worn and sad, and that months had done the work of years 
on him since they parted. Charles did his utmost to treat 
these signs of sorrow lightly, and spoke cheerfully and even 

gayiy- 

“ I ’d go with your merry humor, boy, with all my heart, 
if you were not about to leave us.” 

Was it anything in the interests thus touched on, or was 
it the chance phrase, “ to leave m*,” that made young 
Heathcote become pale as death while he asked, “ How is 
May?” 

“Well, — quite well; she was here a moment back. I 
fancied she was in the room when you came in. I ’ll send 
for her.” 

“ No, no ; time enough. Let us have a few more minutes 
together.” 

In a sort of hurried and not very collected way, he now 
ran on to talk of his prospects and the life before him. It 
was easy to mark how the assumed slap-dash manner was a 
mere mask to the bitter pain he felt and that he knew he 


THE PALAZZO BALBI. 


469 


was causing. He talked of India as though a few days* 
distance, — of the campaign like a hunting-party ; the whole 
thing was a sort of eccentric ramble, to have its requital in 
plenty of incident and adventure. He even assumed all 
the vulgar slang about ‘‘hunting down the niggers,” and 
coming back loaded with “ loot,” when the old man threw 
his arm around him, and said, — 

“ But not to me, Charley, — not to me.” 

The chord was touched at last. All the pretended careless 
ease was gone, and the young man sobbed aloud as he 
pressed his father to his breast. The secret which each 
wanted to keep to his own heart was out, and now they must 
not try any longer a deception. 

“ And why must it be, Charley? what is the urgent cause 
for deserting me? I have more need of you than ever I had. 
I want your counsel and your kindness ; your very presence 

— as I feel it this moment — is worth all my doctors.” 

“I think you know — I think I told you, I mean — that 
you are no stranger to the position I stood in here. You 
never taught me, father, that dependence was honorable. It 
was not amongst your lessons that a life of inglorious idle- 
ness was becoming.” As with a faltering and broken utter- 
ance he spoke these words, his confusion grew greater and 
greater, for he felt himself on the very verge of a theme that 
he dreaded to touch ; and at last, with a great effort, he said, 
“ And besides all this, I had no right to sacrifice another to 
my selfishness.” 

“I don’t understand you, Charley.” 

“ Maybe not, sir ; but I am speaking of what I know for 
certain. But let us not go back on these things.” 

“What are they? Speak out, boy,” cried he, more 
eagerly. 

“I see you are not aware of what I thought you knew. 
You do not seem to know that May’s affections are engaged, 

— that she has given her heart to that young college man 
who was here long ago as Agincourt’s tutor. They have 
corresponded.” 

“ Corresponded ! ” 

“ Yes, I know it all, and she will not deny it, — nor need 
she, from all I can learn. He is a fine-hearted fellow. 


470 


ONE OF THEM. 


worthy of any girl’s love. Agincourt has told me some 
noble traits of him, and he deserves all his good fortune.” 

“But to think that she should have contracted this 
engagement without consulting me, — that she should have 
written to him — ” 

“ I don’t see how you can reproach her, a poor motherless 
girl. How could she go to you with her heart full of sorrows 
and anxieties? She was making no worldly compact in 
which she needed your knowledge of life to guide her.” 

“ It was treachery to us all ! ” cried the old man, bitterly, 
for now he saw to what he owed his son’s desertion of him. 

“ It was none to me; so much I will say, father. A stupid 
compact would have bound her to her unhappiness, and this 
she had the courage to resist.” 

“ And it is for this I am to be forsaken in my old age ! ” 
exclaimed he, in an accent of deep anguish. “I can never 
forgive her, — never ! ” 

Charles sat down beside him, and, with his arm on the old 
man’s shoulder, talked to him long in wojds of truest affec- 
tion. He recalled to his mind the circumstances under which 
May Leslie first came amongst them, the daughter of his old- 
est, dearest friend, intrusted to his care, to become one day 
his own daughter, if she willed it. 

“ Would you coerce her to this? Would you profit by the 
authority you possess over her to constrain her will ? Is it 
thus you would interpret the last dying words of your old 
companion? Do not imagine, father, that I place these 
things before you in cold blood or indifference. I have my 
share of sorrow in the matter.” He was going to say more, 
but he stopped himself, and, arising, walked towards the 
window. “There she is ! ” cried he, “on the terrace; I’ll 
go and meet her.” And with this he went out. 

It is not impossible that the generous enthusiasm into 
which Charles Heathcote had worked himself to subdue 
every selfish feeling about May enabled him to meet her with 
less constraint and difficulty. At all events, he came towards 
her with a manner so like old friendship that, though herself 
confused, she received him with equal cordiality. 

“ How like old times, May, is all this ! ” said he, as, with 
her arm within his own, they strolled under a long vine 


THE PALAZZO BALBL 


471 


trellis. “If I had not to remember that next Wednesday I 
must be at Malta, I could almost fancy I had never been 
away. I wonder when we are to meet again? and where, 
and how?** 

“I*m sure it is not I that can tell you,** said she, pain- 
fully ; for in the attempt to conceal his emotion his voice had 
assumed a certain accent of levity that wounded her deeply. 



“The where matters little. May,** resumed he; “but the 
when is much, and the how still more.** 

“It is fortunate, then, that this is the only point I can at 
all answer for, for I think I can say that we shall meet 
pretty much as we part.*’ 

“What am I to understand by that, May?** asked he, 
with an eagerness that forgot all dissimulation. 

“How do you find papa looking?” asked she, hurriedly, 
as a deep blush covered her face. “Is he as well as you 
hoped to see him?” 



472 


ONE OF THEM. 


“No,” said lie, bluntly; “he has grown thin and care- 
worn. Older by ten years than I expected to find him.” 

“He has been much fretted of late; independently of 
being separated from you, he has had many anxieties.” 

“I have heard something of this; more, indeed, than I 
like to believe true. Is it possible. May, that he intends to 
marry ? ” 

She nodded twice slowly, without speaking. 

“And his wife is to be this Mrs. Morris, — this widow 
that I remember at Marlia, long ago ? ” 

“ And who is now here domesticated with us.” 

“What do you know of her? What does any one know 
of her? ” asked he, impatiently. 

“ Absolutely nothing, — that is, of her history, her family, 
or her belongings. Of herself I can only say that she is 
supreme in this house ; her orders alone are obeyed. I have 
reason to believe that papa confides the gravest interests to 
her charge, and for myself, I obey her by a sort of instinct.” 

“ But you like her. May ? ” 

“ I am too much afraid of her to like her. I was at first 
greatly attracted by fascinations perfectly new to me, and by 
a number of graceful accomplishments, which certainly lent 
a great charm to her society. But after a while I detected, 
or I fancied that I detected, that all these attractions were 
thrown out as lures to amuse and occupy us, while she was 
engaged in studying our dispositions and examining our 
natures. Added to this, I became aware of the harshness 
she secretly bestowed upon poor Clara, whose private lec- 
tures were little else than tortures. This latter completely 
estranged me from her, and, indeed, was the first thing which 
set me at work to consider her character. From the day 
when Clara left this — ” 

“ Left this, and for where? ” cried he. 

“I cannot tell you; we have never heard of her since. 
She was taken away by a guardian, a certain Mr. Stocmar, 
whom papa seemed to know, or at least thought he had met 
somewhere, many years ago. It was shortly after the tidings 
of Captain Morris’s death this gentleman arrived here to 
claim her.” 

“ And her mother, — was she willing to part with her? ” 


THE PALAZZO BALBI. 


473 


“ She affected great sorrow — fainted, I think — when she 
read the letter that apprised her of the necessity ; but from 
Clara herself I gathered that the separation was most grate- 
ful to her, and that for some secret cause I did not dare to 
ask — even had she known to tell — they were not to meet 
again for many, many years.” 

“ But all that you tell me is unnatural. May. Is there not 
some terrible mystery in this affair? Is there not some 
shameful scandal beneath it all?” 



A heavy sigh seemed to concur with what he said. 

“ And can my father mean to marry a woman of whose 
past life he knows nothing? Is it with all these circum- 
stances of suspicion around her that he 'is willing to share 
name and fortune with her?” 

“As to that, such is her ascendancy over him, that were 
she to assure him of the most improbable or impossible of 
events he 'd not discredit her. Some secret dread of what 
you would say or think has delayed the marriage hitherto ; 


474 


ONE OF THEM. 


but once you have taken your leave and are fairly off, — not 
to return for years, — the event will no longer be deferred.” 

“ Oh, May, how you grieve me ! I cannot tell you the 
misery you have put into my heart.” 

“It is out of my own sorrow I have given you to drink,” 
said she, bitterly. “You are a man, and have a man’s 
career before you, with all its changeful chances of good or 
evil ; I, as a woman, must trust my hazard of happiness to a 
home, and very soon I shall have none.” 

He tried to speak, but a sense of choking stopped him, 
and thus, without a word on either side, they walked along 
several minutes. 

“ May,” said he, at last, “ do you remember the line of 
the poet, — 

“ * Death and absence differ but in name ’ 1 

“ I never heard it before ; but why do you ask me? ” 

“ I was just thinking that in parting moments like this, as 
on a death-bed, one dares to speak of things which from 
some sense of shame one had never dared to touch on before. 
Now, I want to carry away with me over the seas the thought 
that your lot in life is assured, and your happiness, so far as 
any one’s can be, provided for. To know this, I must force 
a confidence which you may not wish to accord me ; but be- 
think you, dear May, that you will never see me more. Will 
you tell me if I ask about him ? ” 

“About whom?” asked she, in unfeigned astonish- 
ment, for never were her thoughts less directed to Alfred 
Layton. 

“May,” said he, almost angrily, “refuse me if you 
will, but let there be no deceit between us. I spoke of 
Layton.” 

“ Ask what you please, and I will answer you,” said she, 
boldly. 

“ He is your lover, is he not? You have engaged yourself 
to him?” 

“No.” 

“ It is the same thing. You are to be his wife, when this, 
that, or t’ other happens ? ” 

“No.” 


THE PALAZZO BALBI. 


475 


“In a word, if there be no compact, there is an under- 
standing between you ? 

“Once more, no! ” said she, in the same firm voice. 

“Will you deny that you have received letters from him, 
and have written to him again ? ” 

An angry fiush covered the girl’s cheek, and her lip trem- 
bled. For an instant it seemed as if an indignant answer 
would break from her; but she repressed the impulse, and 
coolly said, “There is no need to deny it. I have done 
both.” 

“I knew it, — I knew it! ” cried he, in a bitter exultation. 
‘‘You might have dealt more frankly with me, or might 
have said, ‘ I am in no wise accountable to you. I recognize 
no right in you to question me. ’ Had you done this. May, 
it would have been a warning to me ; but to say, ‘ Ask me 
freely, I will tell you everything, ’ — was this fair, was this 
honest, was it true-hearted ? ” 

“And yet I meant it for such,” said she, sorrowfully. “I 
may have felt a passing sense of displeasure that you 
should have heard from any other than myself of this corre- 
spondence ; but even that is passed away, and I care not to 
learn from whom you heard it. I have written as many as 
three letters to Mr. Layton. This is his last to we.” She 
took at the same moment a letter from her pocket, and 
handed it towards him. 

“ I have no presumption to read your correspondence. May 
Leslie,” said he, red with shame and anger together. “Your 
asking me to do so implies a rebuke in having dared to 
speak on the subject, but it is for the last time.” 

“And is it because we are about to part, Charles, that it 
must be in anger ? ” said she ; and her voice faltered and her 
lip trembled. “Of all your faults, Charles, selfishness was 
not one, long ago.” 

“No matter what I was long ago; we have both lived 
to see great changes in ourselves.” 

“Come, let us be friends,” said she, taking his hand cor- 
dially. “I know not how it is with you, but never in my 
life did I need a friend so much.” 

“Oh, May, how can I serve you?” 

“First read that letter, Charles. Sit down there and read 


476 


ONE OF THEM. 


it through, and I ’ll come back to you by the time you ’ve 
finished it.” 

With a sort of dogged determination to sacrifice himself, 
no matter at what cost, Charles Heathcote took the letter 
from her, and turned away into another alley of the garden. 


CHAPTER L. 


THREE MET AGAIN. 

When, on the following morning, Charles Heathcote re- 
paired to the hotel where he had left his friend Lord Agin- 
court, he was surprised to hear the sound of voices and 
laughter as he drew nigh the room ; nor less astonished was 
he, on entering, to discover O’Shea seated at the breakfast- 
table, and manifestly in the process of enjoying himself. 
Had there been time to retire undetected, Heathcote would 
have done so, for his head was far too full of matters of 
deep interest to himself to desire the presence of a stranger, 
not to say that he had a communication to make to his 
friend both delicate and difficult. O’Shea’s quick glance 
had, however, caught him at once, and he cried out, 
“Here ’s the very man we wanted to make us complete, — 
the jolliest party of three that ever sat down together.” 

“I scarcely thought to see you in these parts,” said 
Heathcote, with more of sulk than cordiality in the tone. 

“Your delight ought to be all the greater, though, maybe, 
it is n’t! You look as glum as the morning I won your trap 
and the two nags.” 

“By the way, what became of them?” asked Heathcote. 

“ I sold the chestnut to a young cornet in the Carabineers. 
He saw me ride him through all the bonfires in Sackville 
Street the night the mob beat the police, and he said he 
never saw his equal to face fire; and he was n’t far wrong 
there, for the beast was stone blind.” 

“And the gray? ” 

“The gray is here, in Rome, and in top condition; and 
if I don’t take him over five feet of timber, my name is n’t 
Gorman.” A quick wink and a sly look towards Agincourt 
conveyed to Heathcote the full meaning of this speech. 

“And you want a high figure for him?” asked he. 


478 


ONE OF THEM. 


“If I sell him, — if I sell him at all; for you see, if the 
world goes well with me, and I have a trump or two in my 
hand, I won’t part with that horse. It ’s not every day in 
the week that you chance on a beast that can carry fifteen 
stone over a stiff country, — ay, and do it four days in the 
fortnight! ” 

“What’s his price?” asked Agincourt. 

“Let him tell you,” said O’Shea, with a most expressive 
look at Heathcote. “ He knows him as well or better than 
I do.” 

“Yes,” said Heathcote, tantalizing him on purpose; “but 
when a man sets out by saying, ‘ I don’t want to sell my 
horse,’ of course it means, ‘ If you will have him, you must 
pay a fancy price.’ ” 

If O’Shea’s expression could be rendered in words, it 
might be read thus: “And if that be the very game I’m 
playing, ain’t you a downright idiot to spoil it? ” 

“Well,” said Agincourt, after a pause, “I’m just in the 
sort of humor this morning to do an extravagant thing, or 
a silly one.” 

“Lucky fellow! ” broke in Heathcote, “for O’Shea ’s the 
very man to assist you to your project.” 

“I am!” said O’Shea, firmly and quickly; “for there’s 
not the man living has scattered his money more freely 
than myself. Before I came of age, when I was just a slip 
of a boy, about nineteen — ” 

“Never mind the anecdote, old fellow,” said Heathcote, 
laughingly, as he laid his hand on the other’s shoulder. 
“Agincourt has just confessed himself in the frame of mind 
to be ‘ done.’ Do him, therefore, by all means. Say a 
hundred and fifty for the nag, and he ’ll give it, and keep 
your good story for another roguery.” 

“Isn’t he polite? — isn’t he a young man of charming 
manners and elegant address? ” said O’Shea, with a strange 
mixture of drollery and displeasure. 

“He’s right, at all events,” said Agincourt, laughing at 
the other’s face; “he ’s right as regards me. I ’ll give you 
a hundred and fifty for the horse without seeing him.” 

“Oh, mother of Moses! I wish your guardian was like 
you.” 


THREE MET AGAIN. 


479 


“Why so? What do you mean? ” 

“I mean this, — that I wish he’d buy me, too, without 
seeing me ! ” And then, seeing that by their blank looks 
they had failed to catch his meaning, he added, “Is n’t he 
one of the Cabinet now ? ” 

“Yes, he is Colonial Secretary.” 

“ That ’s the very fellow I want. He ’s giving away 
things every day, that any one of them would be the making 
of me.” 

“What would you take? ” 

“Whatever I ’d get. There ’s my answer, whatever I ’d 
get. I ’d be a Bishop, or a Judge, or a boundary Com- 
missioner, or a Treasurer, — I’d like to be that best, — or 
anything in reason they could offer a man of good family, 
and who had a seat in the House.” 

“I think you might get him something; I’m sure you 
might,” said Heathcote. 

“Well, I can try, at all events. I’ll write to-day.” 

“Will you really?” 

I give you my word on it. I ’ll say that, independently 
of all personal claims of your own, you ’re an intimate and 
old friend, whose advancement I will accept as a favor done 
to myself.” 

“That’s the ticket. But mind no examination, — na 
going before the Civil Service chaps. I tell you fairly, I 
would n’t take the Governor-Generalship of India if I had 
to go up for the multiplication-table. I think I see myself - 
sitting trembling before them, one fellow asking me, ‘ Who- 
invented “pitch and toss”?’ and another inquiring ‘ Who 
was the first man ever took pepper with oysters ? ’ ” 

“Leave all that to Agincourt,” said Heathcote; “he’ll 
explain to his guardian that you were for several sessions a 
distinguished member of the House — ” 

“’Twas I that brought ‘ crowing ’ in. I used to crow 
like a cock when old Sibthorp got up, and set them all off 
laughing.” 

“I ’ll mention your public services — ” 

“And don’t say that I ’m hard up. Don’t make it appear 
that it ’s because I ’m out at the elbows I ’m going, but just 
a whim, — the way Gladstone went to Greece the other day ; 


480 


ONE OF THEM. 


that ’s the real dodge, for they keep the Scripture in mind 
up in Downing Street, and it ’s always the ‘ poor they send 
empty away. * ” 

“And you’ll dine with us here, at seven?” said Agin- 
court, rising from the table. 

“That ’s as much as to say, ‘ Cut your lucky now, Gor- 
man; we don’t want you till dinner-time.’ ” 

“You forget that he has got the letter to write about 
you,” said Heathcote. “You don’t want him to lose a 
post?” 

“ And the gray horse ? ” 

“He ’s mine; I ’ve bought him.” 

“I suppose you ’ve no objection to my taking a canter on 
him this morning ? ” 

“Ride him, by all means,” said Agincourt, shaking his 
hand cordially while he said adieu. 

“Why did you ask him to dinner to-day? ” said Heathcote, 
peevishly. “I wanted you to have come over and dined 
with us. My father is eager to see you, and so is May.” 

“Let us go to tea, then. And how are they? — how is he 
looking? ” 

“ Broken, — greatly broken. I was shocked beyond meas- 
ure to see him so much aged since we met, and his spirits 
gone, — utterly gone. ” 

“Whence is all this?” 

“He says that I deserted him, — that he was forsaken.” 

“And is he altogether wrong, Charley? Does not con- 
science prick you on that score ? ” 

“ He says, too, that I have treated May as cruelly and as 
unjustly; also, that I have broken up their once happy home. 
In fact, he lays all at my door.” 

“And have you seen her?*'' 

“Yes, we had a meeting last night, and a long talk this 
morning ; and, indeed, it was about that I wanted to speak 
to you when I found O’Shea here. Confound the fellow! 
he has made the thing more difficult than ever, for I have 
quite forgotten how I had planned it all.” 

“Planned it all! Surely there was no need of a plan, 
Charley, in anything that you meant to say to me ? ” 

“Yes, but there was, though. You have very often piqued 


THREE MET AGAIN. 


481 


me by saying that I never knew my own mind from one day 
to another, that you were always prepared for some change 
of intention in me, and that nothing would surprise you less 
than that I should ‘ throw you over ^ the very day before we 
were to sail for India.” 

“Was I very, very unjust, Charley?” said he, kindly. 

“/ think you were, and for this reason: he who is master 
of his own fate, so far as personal freedom and ample for- 
tune can make him, ought not to judge rashly of the doubts 
and vacillations and ever changing purposes of him who 
has to weigh fifty conflicting influences. The one sufficiently 
strong to sway others may easily take his line and follow 
it; the other is the slave of any incident of the hour, and 
must be content to accept events, and not mould them.” 

“I read it all, Charley. You T1 not go out? ” 

“I will not.” 

Agincourt repressed the smile that was fast gathering on 
his lips, and, in a grave and quiet voice, said, “And why?” 

“For the very reason you have so often given me. She 
cares for me ; she has told me so herself, and even asked me 
not to leave them ! I explained to her that I had given you 
not only a promise, but a pledge, that, unless you released 
me, 1 was bound in honor to accompany you. She said, 
‘ Will you leave this part of the matter to me ? ’ and I an- 
swered, ‘No, ITl go frankly to him, and say, “I’m going 
to break my word with you : I have to choose between May 
Leslie and you, and I vote for her.” ’ ” 

“What a deal of self-sacrifice it might have saved you, 
Charley,” said he, laughing, “had you seen this telegram 
which came when I had sat down to breakfast.” It came 
from the Horse Guards, sent by some private friend of Agin- 
court’ s, and was in these words: “The row is over, no more 
drafts for India, do not go.” 

Heathcote read and re-read the paper for several minutes. 
“So, then, for once I have luck on my side. My resolve 
neither wounds a friend nor hurts my own self-esteem. Of 
course you ’ll not go? ” 

“Certainly not. I’ll not go out to hunt the lame ducks 
that others have wounded.” 

“You ’ll let me take this and show it to my father,” said 

31 


482 


ONE OF THEM. 


Heathcote. “He shall learn the real reason of my stay 
hereafter, but for the present this will serve to make him 
happy; and poor May, too, will be spared the pain of 
thinking that in yielding to her wish I have jeopardized a 
true friendship. I can scarcely believe all this happiness 
real, Agincourt. After so long a turn of gloom and despon- 
dency, I cannot trust myself to think that fortune means so 
kindly by me. Were it not for one unhappy thought, — one 
only, — I could say I have nothing left to wish for.” 

“And what is that? — Is it anything in which I can be 
of service to you ? ” 

“No, my dear fellow; if it were, I’d never have said it 
was a cause for sorrow. It is a case, however, equally 
removed from your help as from mine. I told you some 
time back that my father, yielding to a game of cleverly 
played intrigue, had determined to marry this widow, Mrs. 
Penthony Morris, whom you remember. So long as the 
question was merely mooted in gossip, I could not allude to 
it; but when he wrote himself to me on the subject, I remon- 
strated with him as temperately as I was able. I adverted 
to their disproportion of age, their dissimilarity of habits ; 
and, lastly, I spoke out and told him that we knew nothing, 
any of us, of this lady, her family, friends, or connections; 
that though I had inquired widely, I never met the man 
who could give me any information about her, or had ever 
heard of her husband. I wrote all this, and much more of 
the same kind, in the strain of frank confidence a son might 
employ towards his father, particularly when they had long 
lived together in relations of the dearest and closest affec- 
tion. I waited eagerly for his answer. Some weeks went 
over, and then there came a letter, not from him, but from 
her. The whole mischief was out: he had given her my 
letter, and said, ‘ Answer it. ’ I will show you her epistle 
one of these days. It is really clever. There was n’t a 
word of reproach, — not an angry syllable in the whole of it. 
She was pained, fretted, deeply fretted by what I had written, 
but she acknowledged that I had, if I liked to indulge them, 
reasonable grounds for all my distrusts, though, perhaps, it 
might have been more generous to oppose them. At first, 
she said, she had resolved to satisfy all my doubts by the 


THREE MET AGAIN. 


483 


names and circumstances of her connections, with every 
detail of family history and fortune; hut, on second 
thoughts, her pride revolted against a step so offensive to 
personal dignity, and she had made up her mind to confine 
these revelations to my father, and then leave his roof 
forever. ‘ W riting, ’ continued she, ‘ as I now do, without 
his knowledge of what I say, — for, with a generous confi- 
dence in me that I regret is not felt in other quarters, he 
has refused to read my letter, — I may tell you that I shall 
place my change of purpose on such grounds as can never 
possibly endanger your future relations with your father. 
He shall never suspect, in fact, from anything in my con- 
duct, that my departure was influenced in the slightest degree 
by what has fallen from you. The reasons I will give him 
for my step will refer solely to circumstances, that refer to 
myself. Go back, therefore, in all confidence and love, and 
give your whole affection to one who needs and who de- 
serves it ! ' 

“There was, perhaps, a slight tendency to dilate upon 
what ought to constitute my duties and regards; but, on 
the whole, the letter was well written and wonderfully dis- 
passionate. I was sorely puzzled how to answer it, or what 
course to take, and might have been more so, when my mind 
was relieved by a most angry epistle from my father, accus- 
ing me roundly, not only of having wilfully forsaken him, 
but having heartlessly insulted the very few who compassion- 
ated his lonely lot, and were even ready to share it. 

“This ended our correspondence, and I never wrote again 
till I mentioned my approaching departure for India, and 
offered, if he wished it, to take Italy on my way and see 
him once more before I went. To this there came the kind- 
est answer, entreating me to come and pass as many days 
as I could with him. It was all affection, but evidently 
written in great depression of mind and spirits. There 
were three lines of a postscript, signed ‘ Louisa,* assuring 
me that none more anxiously looked forward to my visit 
than herself ; that she had a pardon to crave of me, and 
would far rather sue for it in person than on paper. ‘ As 
you are coming,* said she, ‘I will say no more, for when 
you do come you will both pity and forgive me.* ** 


484 


ONE OF THEM. 


As Heathcote had just finished the last word, the door of 
the room was quietly opened, and O’Shea peeped in. “Are 
you at the letter? for, if you are, you might as well say, 
‘ Mr. Gorman O’Shea was never violent in his politics, but 
one of those who always relied upon the good faith and good 
will of England towards his countrymen.* That ’s a sen- 
tence the Whigs delight in, and I remark it ’s the sure sign 
of a good berth.” 

“Yes, yes, I ’ll book it; don’t be afraid,” said Agincourt, 
laughing; and the late member for Inch retired, fully satis- 
fied. “Go on, Charley; tell me the remainder.” 

“There is no more to tell; you have heard all. Since I 
arrived I have not seen her. She has been for two days 
confined to bed with a feverish cold, and, apprehending 
something contagious, she will not let May visit her. I 
believe, however, it is a mere passing illness, and I suppose 
that to-morrow or next day we shall meet.” 

“And how? for that, I own, is a matter would puzzle me 
considerably.” 

“It will all depend upon her. She must give the key-note 
to the concert. If she please to be very courteous and 
affable, and all the rest of it, talk generalities and avoid all 
questions of real interest, I must accept that tone, and fol- 
low it. If she be disposed to enter upon private and per- 
sonal details, I have only to be a listener, except she give 
me an opportunity to speak out regarding the marriage.” 

“And you will? ” 

“That I will. I suspect, shrewdly, that she is mistaken 
about our circumstances, and confounds May Leslie’s means 
with ours. Now, when she knows that my father has about 
five hundred a year in the world for everything, it is just 
possible that she may rue her bargain, and cry ‘ off. ’ ” 

“Scarcely, I think,” said Agincoui-t. “The marriage 
would give her station and place at once, if she wants 
them.” 

“What if O’Shea were to supplant Sir William? I half 
suspect he would succeed. He has n’t a sixpence. It ’s 
exactly his own beat to find some one willing to support 
him.” 

“Well, I ’ll back myself to get him a place. I ’ll not say 


THREE MET AGAIN. 


485 


it will be anything very splendid or lucrative, but some- 
thing he shall have. Come, Charley, leave this to me. 
Let O'Shea and myself dine tUe-a-tete to-day, and I T1 
contrive to sound him on it.” 

“I mean to aid you so far, for I know my father would 
take it ill were I to dine away from home, — on the first day 
too ; but I own I have no great confidence in your plan, nor 
any unbounded reliance on your diplomacy.” 

“No matter. I'll try it; and, to begin. I'll start at once 
with a letter to Downing Street. I have never asked for 
anything yet, so I 'll write like one who cannot contemplate 
a refusal.” 

“I wish you success, for all our sakes,” said Charles; 
and left him. 


END OF VOL. I. 





^ / 




ONE OF THEM. 

♦ ■- 

VOLUME n. 


t 



ONE OF THEM 


CHAPTER I. 

THE LONE VILLA ON THE CAMPAGNA. 

About half-way between Rome and Albano, and something 
more than a mile off the high-road, there stands on a little 
swell of the Campagna a ruined villa, inhabited by a humble 
family of peasants, who aid their scanty means of support 
by showing to strangers the view from the house-top. It is 
not, save for its extent, a prospect in any way remarkable. 
Rome itself, in the distance, is not seen in its most impos- 
ing aspect, and the Campagna offers little on which the eye 
cares to rest long. 

The “Villa of the Four Winds,” however, is a place 
sought by tourists, and few leave Rome without a visit to 
it. These are, of course, the excursions of fine days in the 
fine season, and never occur during the dark and gloomy 
months of midwinter. It was now such a time. The wind 
tore across the bleak plain, carrying fitful showers of cold 
rain, driving cattle to their shelter, and sending all to seek a 
refuge within doors ; and yet a carriage was to be seen toil- 
ing painfully through the deep clay of the by-road which led 
from the main line, and making for the villa. After many 
a rugged shake and shock, many a struggling effort of the 
weary beasts, and many a halt, it at length reached the little 
paved courtyard, and was speedily surrounded by the aston- 
ished peasants, curious to see the traveller whose zeal for 
the picturesque could bid defiance to such weather. 


490 


ONE OF THEM. 


As the steps were let down, a lady got out, muffled in a 
large cloak, and wearing the hood over her head, and hastily 
passed into the little kitchen of the house. Scarcely had 
she entered, than, throwing off her cloak, she said, in a gay 
and easy voice, “I have often promised myself a visit to 
the villa when there would be a grand storm to look at. 
Don’t you think that I have hit on the day to keep my 
pledge ? ” The speech was made so frankly that it pleased 
the hearers, nowise surprised, besides, at any eccentricity 
on the part of strangers ; and now the family, young and old, 
gathered around the visitor, and talked, and questioned, and 
admired her dress and her appearance, and told her so, too, 
with a pleasant candor not displeasing. They saw she was 
a stranger, but knew not from where. Her accent was not 
Roman; they knew no more; nor did she give much time 
for speculating, as she contrived to make herself at home 
amongst them by ingratiating herself imperceptibly into the 
good graces of each present, from the gray-headed man to 
whom she discoursed of cattle and their winter food, to the 
little toddling infant, who would insist upon being held 
upon her lap. 

The day went on, and yet never a lull came in the storm 
that permitted a visit to the roof to see the lightning that 
played along the distant horizon. She betrayed no impa- 
tience, however; she laughingly said she was very comfort- 
able at the fireside, and could afford to wait. She expected 
her brother, it is true, to have met her there, and more than 
once despatched a messenger to the door to see if he could 
not descry a horseman on the high-road. The same answer 
came always back : nothing to be seen for miles round. 

“Well,” said she, good-humoredly, “you must give me a 
share of your dinner, for my drive has given me an appetite, 
and I will still wait here another hour.” 

Tt would have made a pleasing picture as she sat there, 
— her fair and beautiful features graced with that indescrib- 
able charm of expression imparted by the wish to please in 
those who have made the art to please their study ; to have 
seen her surrounded by those bronzed and seared and care- 
worn looks, now brightened up by the charm of a spell that 
had often worked its power on their superiors; to have 


THE LONE VILLA ON THE CAMPAGNA. 491 


marked how delicately she initiated herself into their little 
ways, and how marvellously the captivation of her gentle- 
ness spread its influence over them. In their simple piety 
they likened her to the image of all that embodies beauty to 
their eyes, and murmured to each other that she was like the 
Madonna. A cruel interruption to their quiet rapture was 
now given by the clattering sound of a horse’s feet, and, 
immediately after, the entrance of a man drenched to the 
skin, and dripping from the storm. After a few hasty words 
of greeting, the strangers ascended the stairs, and were 
shown into a little room, scantily furnished, but from which 
the view they were supposed to come for could be obtained. 

“What devotion to come out in such weather! ” said she, 
when they were alone. “It is only an Irishman, and that 
Irishman the O’Shea, could be capable of this heroism.” 

“It ’s all very nice making fun of a man when he ’s stand- 
ing like a soaked sponge,” said he; “but I tell you what, 
Mrs. Morris, the devil a Saxon would do it. It ’s not in 
them to risk a sore-throat or a pain in the back for the 
prettiest woman that ever stepped.” 

“I have just said so, but not so emphatically, perhaps; 
and, what is more, I feel all the force of the homage as I 
look at you.” 

“Well, laugh away,” said he. “When a woman has 
pretty teeth or good legs, she does n’t want much provoca- 
tion to show them. But if we are to stay any time here, 
could n’t we have a bit of fire? ” 

“You shall come down to the kitchen presently, and have 
both food and fire; for I’m sure there’s something left, 
though we ’ve just dined.” 

‘ ‘ Dined ? — where ? ” 

“Well, eaten, if you like the word better; and perhaps it 
is the more fitting phrase. I took my plate amongst these 
poor people, and I assure you there was a carrot soup by no 
means bad. Sir William’s chef would have -probably taken 
exception to the garlic, which was somewhat in excess, and 
there was a fishy flavor, also slightly objectionable. They 
called it ‘ baccala. ’ ” 

“Faith, you beat me entirely!” exclaimed O’Shea. “I 
can’t make you out at all, at all.” 


492 


ONE OF THEM. 


“I assure you,” resumed she, “it was quite refreshing to 
dine with people who ate heartily, and never said an ill 
word of their neighbors. I regret very much that you were 
not of the party.” 

“Thanks for the politeness, but I don’t exactly concur 
with the regret.” 

“I see that this wetting has spoiled your temper. It is 
most unfortunate for me that the weather should have broken 
just as I wanted you to be in the very best of humors, and 
with the most ardent desire to serve me.” 

If she began this speech in a light and volatile tone, be- 
fore she had finished it her manner was grave and earnest. 

“Here I am, ready and willing,” said he, quickly. “Only 
say the word, and see if I’m not as good as my promise.” 

She took two or three turns of the room without speaking ; 
then wheeling round suddenly, she stood right in front of 
where he sat, her face pale, and her whole expression that 
of one deeply occupied with one purpose. 

“I don’t believe,” said she, in a slow, collected voice, 
“ that there exists a more painful position than that of a 
woman who, without what the world calls a natural protector, 
must confront the schemes of a man with the inferior weap- 
ons of her sex, and who yet yearns for the privilege of set- 
ting a life against a life.” 

“You ’d like to be able to fight a duel, then? ” aske^ he, 
gravely. 

“Yes. That my own hand might vindicate my own 
wrong, I ’d consent freely to lose it the hour after.” 

“That must needs have been no slight injury that suggests 
such a reparation.” 

She only nodded in reply. 

“It is nothing that the Heathcotes — ” 

“ The Heathcotes ! ” broke she in, with a scornful smile ; 
“it is not from such come heavy wrongs. No, no; they are 
in no wise mixed up in what I allude to, and if they had 
been, I would need no help to deal with them. The injury 
I speak of occurred long ago, — years before I knew you. 
I have told you,” — here she paused, as if for strength to 
go on, — “I have told you that I accept your aid, and on 
your own conditions. Very few words will suffice to show 


THE LONE VILLA ON THE CAMPAGNA. 


493 


for what I need it. Before I go further, however, I would 
ask you once more, are you ready to meet any and every 
peril for my sake? Are you prepared to encounter what 
may risk even your life, if called upon ? I ask this now, 
and with the firm assurance that if you pledge your word 
you will keep it.” 

“ I give you my solemn oath that I’ll stand by you, if it 
lead me to the drop before the jail.” 

She gave a slight shudder. Some old memories had, per- 
haps, crossed her at the moment ; but she was soon self- 
possessed again. 

‘‘The case is briefly this. And mind,” said she, hurriedly, 
“ where I do not seem to give you full details, or enter into 
olear explanations, it is not from inadvertence that I do 
so, but that I will tell no more than I wish, nor will I be 
questioned. The case is this : I was married unhappily. I 
lived with a man who outraged and insulted me, and I met 
with one who assumed to pity me and take my part. I con- 
fided to him my miseries, the more freely that he had been 
the witness of the cruelties I endured. He took advantage 
of the confidence to make advances to me. My heart — if I 
had a heart — would not have been difficult to win. It was a 
theft not worth guarding against. Somehow, I cannot say 
wherefore, this man was odious to me, more odious than the 
very tyrant who trampled on me ; but I had sold myself for a 
vengeance, — yes, as completely as if the devil had drawn 
up the bond and I had signed it. My pact with myself was 
to be revenged on him, come what might afterwards. I have 
told you that I hated this man ; but I had no choice. The 
whole wide world was there, and not another in it had ever 
offered to be my defender ; nor, indeed, did he. No, the 
creature was a coward ; he only promised that if he found 
me as a waif he would shelter me ; he was too cautious to risk 
a finger in my cause, and would only claim what none dis- 
puted with him. And I was abject enough to be content with 
that, to be grateful for it, to write letters full of more than 
gratitude, protesting — Oh, spare me ! if even yet I have 
shame to make me unable to repeat what, in my madness, I 
may have said to him. I thought I could go on throughout 
it all, bu^ I cannot. The end was, my husband died ; yes ! 


494 


ONE OF THEM. 


he was dead! and this man — who I know, for I have the 
proofs, had shown my letters to my husband — claimed me 
in marriage ; he insisted that I should be his wife, or meet all 
the shame and exposure of seeing my letters printed and cir- 
culated through the world, with the story of my life annexed. 
I refused, fled from England, concealed myself, changed my 
name, and did everything I could to escape discovery ; but 
in vain. He found me out ; he is now upon my track ; he 
will be here — here, at Rome — within the week, and, with 
these letters in his hand, repeat his threat, he says, for the 
last time, and I believe him.” The strength which had sus- 
tained her up to this now gave way, and she sank heavily to 
the ground, like one stricken by a fit. It was some time be- 
fore she rallied ; for O’Shea, fearful of any exposure, had not 
called others to his aid, but, opening the window, suffered 
the rude wind to blow over her face and temples. “ There, 
there,” said she, smiling sadly, “ it is but seldom I show so 
poor a spirit, but I am somewhat broken of late. Leave me 
to rest my head on this chair, and do not lift me from the 
ground yet. I ’ll be better presently. Have I cut my fore- 
head ? ” 

“It is but a slight scratch. You struck the foot of the 
table in your fall.” 

“ There,” said she, making a mark with the blood on his 
wrist, “it is thus the Arabs register the fidelity of him who 
is to avenge them. You will not fail me, will you? ” 

“Never, by this hand!” cried he, holding it up firmly 
clenched over his head. 

“ It ’s the Arab’s faith, that if he wash away the stain be- 
fore the depth of vengeance is acquitted, he is dishonored ; 
there’s a rude chivalry in the notion that I like well.” She 
said this in his ear as he raised her from the ground and 
placed her on a chair. “It is time you should know his 
name,” said she, after a few minutes’ pause. “ He is called 
Ludlow Paten. I believe he is Captain Paten about town.” 

“ I know him by repute. He ’s a sort of swell at the West- 
End play clubs. He is amongst all the fast men.” 

“ Oh, he ’s fashionable, — he ’s very fashionable.” 

‘ ‘ I have heard him talked of scores of times as one of the 
pleasantest fellows to be met with.” 


THE LONE VILLA ON THE CAMPAGNA. 


495 


“I’m certain of it. I feel assured that he must be a 
cheerful companion, and reasonably honest and loyal in 
his dealings with man. He is of a class that reserve all 
their treacher}^ and all their baseness for where they can 
be safely practised ; and, strange enough, men of honor 
know these things, — men of unquestionable honor associate 
freely with fellows of this stamp, as if the wrong done to 
a woman was a venial offence, if offence at all.” 

“ The way of the world,” said O’Shea, with a half sigh. 

“ Pleasant philosophy that so easily accounts for every 
baseness and even villany by showing that they are popu- 
lar. But come, let us be practical. What ’s to be done 
here ? — what do you suggest ? ” 

“ Give me the right to deal with him, and leave the settle- 
ment to me.” 

“The right — that is — ” She hesitated, flushed up for 
an instant, and then grew lividly pale again. 

“ Yes,” said he, taking his place at her side, and leaning 
an arm on the back of her chair, “I thought I never saw 
your equal when you were gay and light-hearted, and full of 
spirits ; but I like you better, far better now, and I ’d rather 
face the world with you than — ” 

“ I don’t want to deceive you,” said she, hurriedly, and 
her lips quivered as she spoke ; “ but there are things which 
I cannot tell you, — things of which I could not speak to any 
one, least of all to him who says he is willing to share his 
fate with me. It is a hard condition to make, and yet I 
must make it.” 

“ Put your hand in mine, then, and I ’ll take you on any 
conditions you like.” 

“ One word more before we close our bargain. It might 
so happen — it is far from unlikely — that the circumstances 
of which I dare not trust myself to utter a syllable may come 
to your ears when I am your wife, when it will be impos- 
sible for you to treat them as calumnies, and just as idle to 
say that you never heard of them before. How will you act 
if such a moment comes? ” 

“Answer me one plain question first. Is there any man 
living who has power over you — except as regards these 
letters, I mean ? ” 


496 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ None.” 

“ There is, then, no charge of this, that, or T other? ” 

“ I will answer no more. I have told you fairly that if 
you take me for your wife you must be prepared to stand in 
the breach between me and the world, and meet whatever 
assails me as one prepared. Are you ready for this? ” 

“I’m not afraid of the danger — ” 

“ So, then, your fears are only for the cause?” 

It was with the very faintest touch of scorn these words 
were spoken ; but he marked it, and reddened over face and 
forehead. 

“ When that cause will have become my own, you ’ll see 
that I ’ll hesitate little about defending it.” 

“ That ’s all that I ask for, all that I wish. This is strange 
courtship,” said she, trying to laugh; “but let us carry it 
through consistently. I conclude you are not rich ; neither 
am I, — at least, for the present ; a very few weeks, however, 
will put me in possession of a large property. It is in land 
in America. The legal formalities which are necessary will 
be completed almost immediately, and my co-heir is now com- 
ing over from the States to meet me, and establish his claim 
also. These are all confidences, remember, for I now speak 
to you freely ; and, in the same spirit that I make them, I 
ask you to trust me, — to trust me fully and wholly, with a 
faith that says, ‘ I will wait to the end — to the very end ! * ” 
“ Let this be my pledge,” said he, taking her hand and 
kissing it. “Faith!” said he, after a second or two, “I 
can scarcely believe in my good luck. It seems to be every 
moment so like a dream to think that you consent to take 
me ; just, too, when I was beginning to feel that fortune 
had clean forgotten me. You are not listening to me, not 
minding a word I say. What is it, then, you are thinking 
of?” 

“ I was plotting,” said she, gravely. 

“ Plotting, — more plotting ! Why can’t we go along now 
on the high-road, without looking for by-paths ? ” 

“ Not yet, — not yet awhile. Attend to me, now. It is 
not likely that we can meet again very soon. My coming out 
here to-day was at great risk, for I am believed to be ill and 
in bed with a feverish cold. I cannot venture to repeat this 


THE LONE VILLA ON THE CAMPAGNA. 


497 


peril, but you shall hear from me. My maid is to be trusted, 
and will bring you tidings of me. With to-morrow’s post I 
hope to learn where Paten is, and when he will be here. 
You shall learn both immediately, and be prepared to act on 
the information. Above all things, bear in mind that though 
I hate this man, all my abhorrence of him is nothing — actu- 
ally nothing — to my desire to regain my letters. For them 
I would forego everything. Had I but these in my posses- 
sion, I could wait for vengeance, and wait patiently.” 

“ So that from himself personally you fear nothing?” 

“ Nothing. He cannot say more of me than is open to all 
the world to say — ” She stopped, and grew red, for she felt 
that her impetuosity had carried her further than she was 
aware. “ Remember once more, then, if you could buy them, 
steal them, get them in any way, — I care not how, that my 
object is fulfilled, — the day you place them in this hand it is 
your own ! ” 

He burst out into some rhapsody of his delight, but checked 
himself as suddenly, when he saw that her face had assumed 
its former look of preoccupation. 

“Plotting again? ” asked he, half peevishly. 

“ I have need to plot,” said she, mournfully, as she leaned 
her head upon her hand ; and now there came over her coun- 
tenance a look of deepest sorrow. “ I grow very weary of 
all this at times,” said she, in a faint and broken voice ; “ so 
weary that I half suspect it were better to throw the cards 
down, and say, ‘There! I’ve lost! What’s the stake?’ I 
believe I could do this. I am convinced I could, if I were 
certain that there was one man or one woman on the earth 
who would give me one word of pity, or bestow one syllable 
of compassion for my fall.” 

“ But surely your daughter Clara — ” 

“ Clara is not my daughter ; she is nothing to me, — never 
was, never can be. We are separated, besides, never to 
meet again, and I charge you not to speak of her.” 

“ May I never! if I can see my way at all. It’s out of 
one mystery into another. Will you just tell me — ” 

“Ask me nothing. You have heard from me this day 
what I have never told another. But I have confidence in 
your good faith, and can say, ‘ If you rue your bargain, there 

32 


498 


ONE OF THEM. 


is yet time to say so/ and you may leave this as free as when 
you entered it.” 

“ You never mistook a man more. It’s not going back I 
was thinking of ; but surely I might ask — ” 

“ Once for all, I will not be questioned. There never 
lived that man or woman who could thread their way safely 
through' difficulties, if they waited to have every obstacle 
canvassed and every possible mystery explained. You must 
leave me to my own guidance here ; and one of its first con- 
ditions is, not to shake my confidence in myself.” 

“ Won’t you even tell me when we ’re to be one? ” 

What an ardent lover it is ! ” said she, laughing. “ There, 
fetch me my shawl, and let me see that you know how to 
put it properly on my shoulders. No liberties, sir ! and 
least of all when they crush a Parisian bonnet. The evening 
is falling already, and I must set off homewards.” 

“Won’t you give me a seat in the carriage with you? 
Surely, you ’d not see me ride back in such a downpour as 
that.” 

“I should think I would. I ’d leave you to go it on foot 
rather than commit such an indiscretion. Drive back to 
Rome with Mr. O’Shea alone! What would the world say? 
What would Sir William Heathcote say, who expects to 
make me Lady Heathcote some early day next month?” 

“ By the way, I heard that story. An old fellow, called 
Nick Holmes, told me — ” 

“ What old Nick told you could scarcely be true. There, 
will you order the carriage to the door, and give these good 
people some money? Ain’t you charmed that I give you one 
of a husband’s privileges so early ? Don’t dare to answer 
me ; an Irishman never has the discretion to reply to a lib- 
erty as he ought. Is that poor beast yours ? ” asked she, as 
they gained the door, and saw a horse standing, all shivering 
and wretched, under a frail shed. 

“ He was this morning, but I had the good luck to sell 
him before I took this ride.” 

“I must really compliment you,” said she, laughing 
heartily. “A gentleman who makes love so economically 
ought to be a model of order when a husband.” And with 
this she stepped in, and drove away. 


CHAPTER II. 


A DINNER OF TWO. 

The O’Shea returned to Rome at a “ slapping pace.” He 
did his eight miles of heavy ground within forty minutes. 
But neither the speed nor the storm could turn his thoughts 
from the scene he had just passed through. It was with 
truth he said that he could not give credit to the fact of such 
good fortune as to believe she would accept him ; and yet 
the more he reflected on the subject, the more was he puzzled 
and disconcerted. When he had last seen her, she refused 
him, — refused him absolutely and flatly ; she even hinted 
at a reason that seemed unanswerable, and suggested that, 
though they might aid each other as friends, there could be 
no copartnership of interests. “ What has led her to this 
change of mind, Heaven knows. It is no lucky turn of for- 
tune on my side can have induced it; my prospects were 
never bleaker. And then,” thought he, “of what nature is 
this same secret, or rather these secrets, of hers, for they 
seem to grow in clusters? What can she have done? or 
what has Penthony Morris done? Is he alive? Is he at 
Norfolk Island? Was he a forger, or worse? How much 
does Paten know about her? What power has he over her 
besides the possession of these letters ? Is Paten Penthony 
Morris ? ” It was thus that his mind went to and fro, like a 
surging sea, restless and not advancing. Never was there a 
man more tortured by his conjectures. He knew that she 
might marry Sir William Heathcote if she liked ; why, then, 
prefer himself to a man of station and fortune? Was it that 
he was more likely to enact the vengeance she thirsted for 
than the old Baronet? Ay, that was a reasonable calcula- 
tion. She was right there, and he ’d bring Master Paten “ to 
book,” as sure as his name was O’Shea. That was the sort 


500 


ONE OF THEM. 


of thing he understood as well as any man in Europe. He 
had been out scores of times, and knew how to pick a quar- 
rel, and to aggravate it, and make it perfectly beyond all 
possibility of arrangement, as well as any fire-eater of a 
French line regiment. That was, perhaps, the reason of the 
widow’s choice of him. If she married Heathcote, it would 
be a case for lawyers : a great trial at Westminster, and a 
great scandal in the papers. “But with me it will be all 
quiet and peaceable. I ’ll get back her letters, or I ’ll know 
why.” 

He next bethought him of her fortune. He wished she had 
told him more about it, — how it came to her, — was it by 
settlement, — was it from the Morrises? He wished, too, it 
bad not been in America ; he was not quite sure that property 
there meant anything at all ; and, lastly, he brought to mind 
that though he had proposed for dozens of women, this was 
the only occasion he was not asked what he could secure by 
settlement, and how much he would give as pin-money. No, 
on that score she was delicacy itself, and he was one to 
appreciate all the refinement of her reserve. Indeed, if it 
came to the old business of searches, and showing titles, and 
all the other exposures of the O’Shea family, he felt that he 
would rather die a bachelor than encounter them. “ She 
knew how to catch me ! ‘A row to fight through, and no 
questions asked about money, O’Shea,’ says she. ‘ Can you 
resist temptation like that? ’ ” 

As he alighted at the hotel, he saw Agincourt standing at 
a window, and evidently laughing at the dripping, mud- 
stained appearance he presented. 

“ I hope and trust that was n’t the nag I bought this morn- 
ing,” said he to O’Shea, as he entered the room. 

‘ ‘ The very same ; and I never saw him in finer heart. If 
you only witnessed the way he carried me through those 
ploughed fields out there ! He ’s strong in the loins as a 
cart-horse.” 

“ I must say that you appear to have ridden him as a 
friend’s horse. He seemed dead beat, as he was led away.” 

“ He ’s fresh as a four-year old.” 

“Well, never mind, go and dress for dinner, for you ’re 
half an hour behind time already. ” 


A DINNER OF TWO. 501 

O’Shea was not sorry to have the excuse, and hurried ofi^ 
to make his toilet. 

Frey tag was aware that his guest was a “Milor’,” and the 
dinner was very good, and the wine reasonably so; and the 
two, as they placed a little spider-table between them before 
the fire, seemed fully conscious of all the enjoyment of the 
situation. 

Agin court said, “ Is not this jolly? ” And so it was. And 
what is there jollier than to be about sixteen or seventeen 
years of age, with good health, good station, and ample 
means? To be launched into manhood, too, as a soldier, 
without one detracting sense of man’s troubles and cares, — 
to feel that your elders condescend to be your equals, and 
will even accept your invitation to dinner ! — ay, and more, 
practise towards you all those little fiatteries and attentions 
which, however vapid ten years later, are positive ecstasies 
now ! 

But of all its glorious privileges there is not one can com- 
pare with the boundless self-confidence of youth, that implicit 
faith not alone in its energy and activity, its fearless con- 
tempt for danger, and its indifference to hardships, but, more 
strange still, in its superior sharpness and knowledge of life ! 
Oh dear ! are we not shrewd fellows when we matriculate at 
Christ Church, or see ourselves gazetted Cornet in the Horse 
Guards Purple? Who ever equalled us in all the wiles and 
schemes of mankind ? Must he not rise early who means to 
dupe us? Have we not a registered catalogue of all the 
knaveries that have ever been practised on the unsuspecting? 
Truly have we ; and if suspicion were a safeguard, nothing 
can harm us. 

Now, Agincourt was a fine, true-hearted, generous young 
fellow, — manly and straightforward, — but he had imbibed 
his share of this tendency. He fancied himself subtle, and 
imagined that a nice negotiation could not be intrusted to 
better hands. Besides this, he was eager to impress Heath- 
cote with a high opinion of his skill, and show that even a 
regular man of the world like O’Shea was not near a match 
for him. 

“I’m not going to drink that light claret such an evening 
as this,” said O’Shea, pushing away his just-tasted glass. 
“ Let us have something a shade warmer.” 


502 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ Ring the bell, and order what you like.” 

“Here, this will do, — ‘ Clos Vougeot,’” said O’Shea, 
pointing out to the waiter the name on the wine “ carte.” 

“ And if that be a failure, I ’ll fall back on brandy-and- 
water, the refuge of a man after bad wine, just as disap- 
pointed young ladies take to a convent. If you can drink 
that little tipple, Agincourt, you ’re right to do it. You ’ll 
come to Burgundy at forty, and to rough port ten years 
later ; but you ’ve a wide margin left before that. How old 
are you?” 

“I shall be seventeen my next birthday,” said the other, 
flushing, and not wishing to add that there were eleven 
months and eight days to run before that event should come 
off. 

“ That ’s a mighty pretty time of life. It gives you a clear 
four years for irresponsible follies before you come of age. 
Then you may fairly count upon three or four more for 
legitimate wastefulness, and with a little, very little, dis- 
cretion, you never need know a Jew till you ’re six-and- 
twenty.” 

“I beg your pardon, my good fellow,” said the other, 
coloring, half angrily; “I’ve had plenty to do with those 
gents already. Ask Nathan whether he has n’t whole sheafs 
of my bills. My guardian only allows me twelve hundred 
a year, — a downright shame they call it in the regiment, and 
so I wrote him word. In fact, I told him what our Major 
said, that with such means as mine I ought to try and man- 
age an exchange into the Cape Rifles.” 

“Or a black regiment in the West Indies,” chimed in 
O’Shea, gravely. 

“ No, confound it, he did n’t say that ! ” 

“The Irish Constabulary, too, is a cheap corps. You 
might stand that.” 

“ I don’t mean to try either,” said the youth, angrily. 

“ And what does Nathan charge you? — say for a ‘ thing ’ 
at three months ? ” 

“That all depends upon the state of the money-market,” 
said Agincourt, with a look of profoundest meaning. “ It is 
entirely a question of the foreign exchanges, and I study 
them like a stockbroker. Nathan said one day, ‘ It ’s a 


A DINNER OF TWO. 503 

thousand pities he ’s a Peer ; there *s a fellow with a head to 
beat the whole Stock Exchange.’” 

“ Does he make you pay twenty per cent, or five-and' 
twenty for short dates ? ” 

“ You don’t understand it at all. It ’s no question of that 
kind. It’s always a calculation of what gold is worth at 
Amsterdam, or some other place, and it ’s a difference of, 
maybe, one-eighth that determines the whole value of a 
bill.” 

“ I see,” said O’Shea, puffing his cigar very slowly. “I 
have no doubt that you bought your knowledge on these 
subjects dearly enough.” 

“ I should think I did! Until I came to understand the 
thing, I was always ‘ outside the ropes,’ always borrowing 
with the ‘ exchanges against me,’ — you know what I mean? ” 

“I believe I do,” said O’Shea, sighing heavily. “They 
have been against me all my life.” 

“ That’s just because you never took trouble to study the 
thing. You rushed madly into the market whenever you 
wanted money, and paid whatever they asked.” 

“ I did indeed ! and, what ’s more, was very grateful if I 
got it.”i 

“ And I know what came of that, — how that ended.” 

“How?” 

“Why, you dipped your estate, gave mortgages, and the 
rest of it.” 

O’Shea nodded a full assent. 

“ Oh, I know the whole story; I’ve seen so much of this 
sort of thing. Well, old fellow,” added he, after a pause, 
“ if I’d been acquainted with you ten or fifteen years ago, I 
could have saved you from all this ruin.” 

O’Shea repressed every tendency to a smile, and nodded 
again. 

“I’d have said to you, ‘Don’t be in a hurry, watch the 
market, and I ’ll tell you when to “ go in.” 

“ Maybe it ’s not too late yet, so give me a word of friendly 
advice,” said O’Shea, with a modest humility. “ There are 
few men want it more.” 

There was now a pause of several minutes ; O’Shea waiting 
to see how his bait had taken, and Agincourt revolving in 


604 


ONE OF THEM. 


his mind whether this was not the precise moment for open- 
ing his negotiation. At last he said, — 

“ I wrote that letter I promised you. I said you were an 
out-and-outer as to ability, and that they could n’t do better 
than make you a Governor somewhere, though you ’d not be 
disgusted with something smaller. I ’ve been looking over 
the vacancies ; there ’s not much open. Could you be a 
Mahogany Commissioner at Honduras?” 

“ Well, so far as having had my legs under that wood for 
many years with pleasure to myself and satisfaction to my 
friends, perhaps I might.” 

“ Do you know what I ’d do if I were you? ” 

“ I have not an idea.” 

“ I ’d marry, — by Jove, I would ! — I ’d marry ! ” 

“ I ’ve thought of it half a dozen times,” said he, stretching 
out his hand for the decanter, and rather desirous of escap- 
ing notice ; “ but, you see, to marry a woman with money, — 
and of course it ’s that you mean, — there ’s always the inquiry 
what you have yourself, where it is, and what are the charges 
on it. Now, as you shrewdly guessed awhile ago, I dipped 
my estate, — dipped it so deep that I begin to suspect it won’t 
come up again.” 

“But look out for a woman that has her fortune at her 
own disposal.” 

“And no friends to advise her.” 

O’Shea’s face, as he said this, was so absurdly droll 
that Agincourt laughed aloud. “Well, as you observe, no 
friends to advise her. I suppose you don’t care much for 
connection, — I mean rank ? ” 

“As for the matter of family, I have enough for as 
many wives as Bluebeard, if the law would let me have 
them.” 

“Then I fancy I know the thing to suit you. She ’s a 
stunning pretty woman, besides.” 

“Where is she? ” 

“At Rome here.” 

“And who is she? ” 

“Mrs. Penthony Morris, the handsome widow, that’s on 
a visit to the Heathcotes. She must have plenty of tin, I 
can answer for that, for old Nathan told me she was in all 


A DINNER OF TWO. 


505 


the heavy transfers of South American shares, and was a 
buyer for very large amounts.” 

“Are you sure of that? ” 

“I can give my word on it. I remember his saying one 
morning, ‘ The widow takes her losses easily ; she minds 
twelve thousand pounds no more than I would a five-pound 
note.’ ” 

“They have a story here that she ’s going to marry old 
Heathcote.” 

“Not true, — I mean, that she won’t have him.” 

“And why? It was clear enough she was playing that 
game for some time back.” 

“I wanted Charley to try his chance,” said Agincourt, 
evading the question ; “but he is spooney on his cousin May, 
I fancy, and has no mind to do a prudent thing.” 

“But how am I to go in?” said O’Shea, timidly. “If 
she ’s as rich as you say, would she listen to a poor out-at- 
elbows Irish gentleman, with only his good blood to back 
him ? ” 

“You ’re the man to do it, — the very man.” 

O’Shea shook his head. 

“I say you ’d succeed. I ’d back you against the field.” 

“Will you make me a bet on it?” 

“With all my heart! What shall it be?” 

“Lay me a hundred to one, in tens, and I give you my 
solemn word of honor I ’ll do my very best to lose my wager 
and win the widow.” 

“Done! I ’ll bet you a thousand pounds to ten; book it, 
with the date, and I ’ll sign it.” 

While Agincourt was yet speaking, O’Shea had produced 
a small note-book, and was recording the bet. Scarcely 
had he clasped the little volume again, when the waiter 
entered, and handed him a note. 

O’Shea read it rapidly, and, finishing off his glass, refilled 
and drank it. “I must leave you for half an hour,” said 
he, hastily. “There ’s a friend of mine in a bit of a scrape 
with one of these French officers; but I ’ll be back 
presently.” 

“I say, make your man fight. Don’t stand any bullying 
with those fellows.” 


506 


ONE OF THEM. 


O’Shea did not wait for his counsels, but hurriea 
off. 

“This way, sir,” whispered a man to him, as he passed 
out into the court of the hotel; “the carriage is round the 
corner.” 

He followed the man, and in a few minutes found himself 
in a narrow by-street, where a single carriage was standing. 
The glass was quietly let down as he drew near, and a voice 
he had no difficulty in recognizing, said, “I have just re- 
ceived a most urgent letter, and I must leave Rome to- 
morrow at daybreak, for Germany. I have learned, besides, 
that Paten is at Baden. He was on his way here, but 
stopped to try his luck at the tables. He has twice broken 
the bank, and swears he will not leave till he has succeeded 
a third time. We all well know how such pledges finish. 
But you must set off there at once. Leave to-morrow night, 
if you can, and by the time you arrive, or the day after, 
you ’ll find a letter for you at the post, with my address, and 
all your future directions. Do nothing with Paten till you 
hear ; mind that, — nothing. I have not time for another 
word, for I am in terror lest my absence from the house 
should be discovered. If anything imminent occur, you 
shall hear by telegraph.” 

“Let me drive back with you; I have much to say, much 
to ask you,” said he, earnestly. 

“On no account. There, good-bye; don’t forget me.” 

While he yet held her hand, the word was given to drive 
on, and his farewell was lost in the rattling of the wheels 
over the pavement. 

“Well, have you patched it up, or is it a fight?” asked 
Agincourt when he entered the room once more. 

“You’ll keep my secret, I know,” said O’Shea, in a 
whisper. “Don’t even breathe a word to Heathcote, but 
I ’ll have to leave this to-morrow, get over the nearest 
frontier, and settle this affair.” 

“You ’d like some cash, would n’t you? — at all events, I 
am your debtor for that horse. Do you want more ? ” 

“There, that’s enough, — two hundred will do,” said 
O’Shea, taking the notes from his fingers; “even if I have 
to make a bolt of it, that will be ample.” 


A DINNER OF TWO. 507 

This looks badly for your wager, O’Shea. It may lose 
you the widow, I suspect.” 

“Who knows?” said O’Shea, laughing. “Circular sail- 
ing is sometimes the short cut on land as well as sea. If 
you have any good news for me from Downing Street, I ’ll 
shy you a line to say where to send; and so, good-bye.” 

And Agincourt shook his hand cordially, but not without 
a touch of envy as he thought of the mission he was engaged 
in. 


CHAPTER III. 


SOME LAST WORDS. 

While Agincourt and O’Shea thus sat and conversed to- 
gether, there was another fireside which presented a far hap- 
pier picture, and where old Sir William sat, with his son 
and May Leslie, overjoyed to think that they were brought 
together again, and to separate no more. Charles had told 
them that he had determined never to leave them, and all 
their thoughts had gone back to the long, long ago, when 
they were so united and so happy. There was, indeed, one 
theme which none dared to touch. It was ever and anon 
uppermost in the mind of each, and yet none had courage 
to adventure on it, even in allusion. It was in one of the 
awkward pauses which this thought produced that a servant 
came to say Mrs. Morris would be glad to see Charles in 
her room. He had more than once requested permission to 
visit her, but somehow now the invitation had come ill- 
timed, and he arose with a half impatience to obey it. 

During the greater part of that morning Charles Heath- 
cote had employed himself in imagining by what process of 
persuasion, what line of argument, or at what price he 
could induce the widow herself to break off the engagement 
with his father. The guarded silence Sir William had 
maintained on the subject since his son’s arrival was to 
some extent an evidence that he knew his project could not 
meet approval. Nor was the old man a stranger to the fact 
that May Leslie’s manner to the widow had long been 
marked by reserve and estrangement. This, too, increased 
Sir William’s embarrassment, and left him more isolated 
and alone. “How shall I approach such a question and 
not offend her? ” was Charles’s puzzle, as he passed her 
door. So full was he of the bulletins of her indisposition, 


SOME LAST WORDS. 


509 


that he almost started as he saw her seated at a table, 
writing away rapidly, and looking, to his thinking, as well 
as he had ever seen her. 

“This is, indeed, a pleasant surprise,” said he, as he 
came forward. “I was picturing to myself a sick-room and 
a sufferer, and I find you more beautiful than ever.” 

“You surely couldn’t imagine I’d have sent for you if I 
were not conscious that my paleness became me, and that 
my dressing-gown was very pretty. Sit down — no, here — 
at my side ; I have much to say to you, and not very long 
to say it. If I had not been actually overwhelmed with 
business, real business too, I ’d have sent for you long ago. 
I could imagine with very little difficulty what was upper- 
most in your mind lately, and how, having determined to 
remain at home, your thoughts would never quit one dis- 
tressing theme, — you know what I mean. Well, I repeat, I 
could well estimate all your troubles and difficulties on this 
head, and I longed for a few minutes alone with you, when 
we could speak freely and candidly to each other, no dis- 
guise, no deception on either side. Shall we be frank with 
each other?” 

“By all means.” 

“Well, then, you don’t like this marriage. Come, speak 
out honestly your mind.” 

“Why, when I think of the immense disproportion in 
age ; when I see on one side — ” 

“Fiddle f addle! if I were seventy, it wouldn’t make it 
better. I tell you I don’t want fine speeches nor delicate 
evasions ; therefore be the blunt, straightforward fellow you 
used to be, and say, ‘ I don’t like it at all.’ ” 

“Well, here goes, I do not like it at all.” 

“Neither do I,” said she, lying back listlessly in her 
chair, and looking calmly at him. “ I see what is passing 
in your mind, Charles. I read your thoughts in their ebb 
and flow, and they come to this : ‘ Why have you taken such 
consummate pains about an object you would regret to see 
accomplished? To what end all your little coquetries and 
graces, and so forth?’ Well, the question is reasonable 
enough, and I ’ll give you only one answer. It amused 
and it worried others. It kept poor May and yourself in a 


510 


ONE OF THEM. 


small fever, and I have never through life had self-command 
enough to deny myself the pleasure of terrifying people at 
small cost, making them fancy they were drowning in two 
feet of water.” 

“I hope May is grateful; I am sure I am,” said Charles, 
stiffly. 

“Well, if you have not been in the past, I intend you to 
be so for the future. I mean to relinquish the great prize 
I had so nearly won; to give up the distinguished honor of 
being your stepmother, with all the rights and privileges I 
could have grouped around that station. I mean to abdi- 
cate all my power; to leave the dear Heathcotes to the 
enjoyment of such happiness as their virtues and merits 
cannot fail to secure them, under the simple condition that 
they will forget me, or, if that be more than they can prom- 
ise, that they will never make me the subject of their dis- 
cussions, nor bring up my name, either in praise or blame. 
Now understand me aright, Charles,” said she, earnestly; 
“this is no request prompted by any pique of injured pride 
or wounded self-love. It is not uttered in the irritation of 
one who feels rejected by you. It is a grave demand, 
made as the price of an important concession. I exact that 
my name be not spoken, or, if uttered by others in your 
presence, that it be unacknowledged and unnoticed. It 
is no idle wish, believe me; for who are the victims of 
the world’s calumnies so often as the friendless, whose 
names call forth no sponsor? They are the outlaws that 
any may wound, or even kill, and their sole sanctuary is 
oblivion.” 

“I think you judge us harshly,” began Charles. 

But she stopped him. 

“No, far from it. I know you all by this time. You 
are far more generously minded than your neighbors, but 
there is one trait attaches to human nature everywhere. 
Every one exaggerates any peril he has passed through, 
and every man and woman is prone to blacken the char- 
acter of those who have frightened them. Come, I ’ll not 
discuss the matter further. I have all those things to pack 
up, and some notes to write before I go.” 

“Go! Are you going away so soon ? ” 


SOME LAST WORDS. 


611 


“To-morrow, at daybreak. I have got tidings of a sick 
relative, an old aunt, who was very fond of me long ago, 
and who wishes to have me near her. I should like to see 
May, and, indeed. Sir William, but I believe it will be 
better not: I mean that partings are gratuitous sorrows. 
You will say all that I wish. You will tell them how it hap- 
pened that I left so hurriedly. I ’m not sure,” added she, 
smiling, “that your explanation will be very lucid or very 
coherent, but the chances are, none will care to question 
you too closely. Of course you will repeat all my gratitude 
for the kindness I have met here. I have had some of my 
happiest days with you,” added she, as if thinking aloud, — 
“days in which I half forgot the life of trouble that was to 
be resumed on the morrow. And, above all, say,” said she, 
with earnestness, “that when they have received my debt of 
thanks they are to wipe out my name from the ledger, and 
remember me no more.” 

Charles Heathcote was much moved by her words. The 
very calm she spoke in had all its effect, and he felt he 
knew not what of self-accusation-'as he thought of her lonely 
and friendless lot. He could not disabuse his mind of the 
thought that it was through offended pride she was relin- 
quishing the station she had so long striven to attain, and 
now held within her very grasp. “She is not the selfish 
creature I had deemed her; she is far, far better than I 
believed. I have mistaken her, misjudged her. That she 
has gone through much sorrow is plain ; that there may be - 
in her story incidents which she would grieve to see a 
town talk, is also likely ; but are not all these reasons the 
more for our sympathy and support, and how shall we 
answer to ourselves, hereafter, for any show of neglect or 
harshness towards her?” 

While he thus reflected, she had turned to the table and 
was busy writing. 

“I have just thought of sending a few farewell lines to 
May,” said she, talking away as her pen ran along the 
paper. “We all of us mistake each other in this world; we 
are valued for what we are not, and deemed deficient in what 
we have.” She stopped, and then crumpling up the half- 
written paper in her hand, said: “No, I T1 not write, — at 


512 


ONE OF THEM. 


least, not now. You ’ll tell her everything, — ay, Charles, 
everything ! ” 

Here she fixed her eyes steadfastly on him, as though to 
look into his very thoughts. “You and May Leslie will be 
married, and one of your subjects of mysterious talk when 
you ’re all alone will be that strange woman who called her- 
self Mrs. PenthoDy Morris. What wise guesses and shrewd 
conjectures do I fancy you making ; how cunningly you ’ll 
put together fifty things that seem to illustrate her story, 
and yet have no bearing upon it; and how cleverly you ’ll 
construct a narrative for her without one solitary atom of 
truth. Well, she ’ll think of you, too, but in a different 
spirit, and she will be happier than I suspect if she do not 
often wish to live over again the long summer days and 
starry nights at Marlia.” 

“May is certain to ask me about Clara, where she is, and 
if we are likely to see her again.” 

“And you ’ll tell her that as I did not speak of her, your 
own delicacy imposed such a reserve that you could not 
ask these questions. Good-bye. But that I want to be 
forgotten, I ’d give you a keepsake. Good-bye, — and for- 
get me.” 

She turned away at the last word, and passed into an 
inner room. Charles stood for an instant or two irreso- 
lute, and then walked slowly away. 


CHAPTER IV. 


FOUND OUT. 

Quackinboss and the Laytons came back in due time to 
England, and at once hastened to London. They had 
traced Winthrop and Trover at Liverpool, and heard of 
their having left for town, and thither they followed them 
in all eagerness. The pursuit had now become a chase, 
with all its varying incidents of good or bad fortune. Each 
took his allotted part, going out of a morning on his especial 
beat, and returning late of an evening to report his success 
>or failure. 

Quackinboss frequented all the well-known haunts of his 
•countrymen, hoping to chance upon some one who had seen 
Winthrop, or could give tidings of him. Old Layton — the 
doctor, as we shall for the remainder of our brief space call 
him — was more practical. He made searches for Hawke’s 
will at Doctors’ Commons, and found the transcript of a 
brief document irregularly drawn, and disposing of a few 
thousand pounds, but not making mention of any Ameri- 
can property. He next addressed himself to that world- 
known force, so celebrated in all the detection of crime; 
he described the men he sought for, and offered rewards for 
their discovery, carefully protesting the while that nothing 
but a vague suspicion attached to them. 

As for Alfred, he tried to take his share in what had 
such interest for the others. He made careful notes of the 
points assigned to him for investigation; he learned names 
xind addresses, and references to no end; he labored hard 
to imbue himself with the zeal of the others, but it would 
not do. All his thoughts, hopes, and wishes had another 
direction, and he longed impatiently for an opportunity to 
make his escape from them, and set out for Italy and dis- 
cover Clara. His only clew to her was through Stocmar; 

33 


514 


ONE OF THEM. 


but that gentleman was abroad, and not expected for some 
days in London. Little did the doctor or Quackinboss sus- 
pect that Alfred’s first call on every morning was at the 
private entrance of the Regent’s Theatre, and his daily 
question as invariably the same demand, “When do you 
expect Mr. Stocmar in town?” 

Poor fellow! he was only bored by that tiresome search, 
and hated every man, woman, and child concerned in the 
dismal history ; and yet no other subject was ever discussed, 
no other theme brought up amongst them. In vain Alfred 
tried to turn the conversation upon questions of public in- 
terest; by some curious sympathy they would not be drawn 
away into that all-absorbing vortex, and, start from what 
point they might, they were certain to arrive at last at the 
High Court of Jersey. 

It was on one evening, as they sat together around the fire, 
that, by dint of great perseverance and consummate skill, 
Alfred had drawn them away to talk of India and the war 
there. Anecdotes of personal heroism succeeded, and for 
every achievement of our gallant fellows at Lucknow, 
Quackinboss steadily quoted some not less daring exploit of 
the Mexican war. Thus discussing courage, they came at 
last to the nice question, — of its characteristics in different 
nations, and even in individuals. 

“ In cool daring, in confronting peril with perfect collect- 
edness, and such a degree of self-possession as confers every 
possible chance of escape on its possessor, a woman is 
superior to us all,” said the doctor, who for some time had 
been silently reflecting. “One case particularly presents 
itself to my mind,” resumed he. “It was connected with 
that memorable trial at Jersey.” 

Alfred groaned heavily, and pushed back his chair from 
the group. 

“The case was this,” continued the old man: “while the 
police were eagerly intent on tracing out all who were im- 
plicated in the murder, suspicion being rife on every hand, 
every letter that passed between the supposed confederates 
was opened and read, and a strict watch set over any who 
were believed likely to convey messages from one to the 
other. 


FOUND OUT. 


515 


“On the evening of the inquest — it was about an hour 
after dark — the window of an upper room was gently 
opened, and a woman’s voice called out to a countryman 
below, ‘ Will you earn half a crown, my good man, and take 
this note to Dr. Layton’s, in the town?’ He agreed at 
once, and the letter and the bribe were speedily thrown into 
his hat. Little did the writer suspect it was a policeman 
in disguise she had charged with her commission! The 
fellow hastened off with his prize to the magistrate, who, 
having read the note, resealed it, and forwarded it to me. 
Here it is. I have shown it to so many that its condition 
is become very frail, but it is still readable. It was very 
brief, and ran thus : — 

‘“Dear Friend, — My misery will plead for me if I thus ad- 
dress you. I have a favor to ask, and my broken heart tells me you 
will not refuse me. I want you to cut me off a lock of my darling’s 
hair. Take it from the left temple, where it is longest, and bring it 
to-morrow to his forlorn widow, 

‘“Louisa Hawke.’ 

“From the moment they read that note, the magistrates 
felt it an outrage to suspect her. I do not myself mean to 
implicate her in the great guilt, — far from it ; but here was 
a bid for sympathy, and put forward in all the coolness of 
a deliberate plan ; for the policeman himself told me, years 
after, that she saw him at Dover, and gave him a sovereign, 
saying jocularly, ‘ I think you look better when dressed as 
a countryman.’ Now, I call this consummate calculation.” 

As he was speaking, Quackinboss had drawn near the 
candles, and was examining the writing. 

“I wonder,” said he, “what the fellows who affect to 
decipher character in handwriting would say to this? It ’s 
all regular and well formed.” 

“Is it very small? Are the letters minute? — for that, 
they allege, is one of the indications of a cruel nature,” 
said Alfred. “They show a specimen of Lucrezia Borgia’s, 
that almost requires a microscope to read it.” 

“No,” said Quackinboss; “that’s what they call a bold, 
free hand; the writing, one would say, of a slapdash gal 
that wasn’t a-goin’ to count consequences.” 


516 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Let me interpret her,” said Alfred, drawing the candles 
towards him, and preparing for a very solemn and deliberate 
judgment. “What’s this?” cried he, almost wildly. “I 
know this hand well; I could swear to it. You shall see if 
I cannot.” And, without another word, he arose, and 
rushed from the room. Before the doctor or Quackinboss 
could recover from their astonishment, Alfred was back 
again, holding two notes in his hand. “Come here, both 
of you, now,” cried he, “and tell me, are not these in 
the same writing?” They were several short notes, — 
invitations or messages from Marlia about riding-parties, 
signed Louisa Morris. “What do you say to that? Is 
that word ‘ Louisa ’ written by the same hand or not? ” cried 
Alfred, trembling from head to foot as he spoke. 

“ ’Tarnal snakes if it ain’t!” broke out Quackinboss; 
“and our widow woman was the wife of that murdered 
fellow Hawke.” 

“ And Clara his daughter! ” muttered Alfred, as he cov- 
ered his face with his hands to hide his emotion. 

“These were written by the same person, that’s clear 
enough,” said the doctor, closely scrutinizing every word 
and every letter; “ there are marks of identity that cannot 
be disputed. But who is this widow you speak of ? ” 

Alfred could only stammer out, “He’ll tell you all,” as 
he pointed to Quackinboss, for a faintish sick sensation 
crept over his frame, and he shook like one in the cold stage 
of an ague. The American, however, gave a very calm and 
connected narrative of their first meeting with Mrs. Penthony 
Morris and her supposed daughter at Lucca ; how that lady, 
from a chance acquaintance with the Heathcotes, had estab- 
lished an intimacy, and then a friendship there. 

“ Describe her to me, — tell me something of her appear- 
ance,” burst in the old man with impatience ; for as his mind 
followed the long-sought-for “ trail,” his eagerness became 
beyond his power of control. “ Blue eyes, that might be 
mistaken for black, or dark hazel, had she not? and the 
longest of eyelashes, the mouth full and pouting, but the 
chin sharply turned, and firm-looking? Am I right?” 

“ That are you, and teeth as reg’lar as a row of soldiers.” 

“Her foot, too, was perfect. It had been modelled 


FOUND OUT. 


617 


scores of times by sculptors, and there were casts of it with 
a Roman sandal, or naked on a plantain-leaf, in her drawing- 
room. You’ve seen her foot?” 

“It was a grand foot! I have seen it,” said the Ameri- 
can ; “ and if I was one as liked monarchy, I’d say it might 
have done for a queen to stand on in front of a throne.” 

“ What was her voice like? ” asked the old man, eagerly. 

“ Low and soft, with almost a tremor in it when she asked 



some trifling favor,” said Alfred, now speaking for the first 
time. 

“Herself, — her very self. I know her well, by that!** 
cried the old man, triumphantly. “ I carried those trembling 
accents in my memory for many and many a day. Go on, 
and tell me more of her. Who was this same Morris, — 
when, how, and where were they married?” 

“We never knew; none of us ever saw him. Some said 
he was living, and in China or India. Some called her a 
widow. The girl Clara was called hers — ” 


518 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ No. Clara was Hawke’s. She must have been Hawke’s 
daughter by his first wife, the niece of this Winthrop.” 

“She’s the great heiress, then,” broke in Quackinboss; 
“she’s to have Peddar’s Clearin’s, and the whole of that 
track beside Grove’s River. There ain’t such another for- 
tune in all Ohio.” 

“ And this was poor Clara’s secret,” said Alfred to Quack- 
inboss, in a whisper, “ when she said, ‘ I only know that I 
am an orphan, and that my name is not Clara Morris.’ ” 

‘ ‘ Do you think, then, sir, that such a rogue as that fellow 
Trover went out all the way to the Western States to make 
out that gal’s right to these territories? ” asked Quackinboss, 
gravely. 

“ Not a bit of it. He went to rob her, to cheat her, to put 
forward some false claim, to substitute some other in her 
place,” cried old Layton. “Who is to say if he himself 
be not the man Morris, and the husband of our fair friend ? 
He may have fifty names, for aught we know, and Morris be 
one of them.” 

“ You told me that Clara had been made over to a certain 
Mr. Stocmar, to prepare her for the stage,” said Alfred to 
the American. But before he could reply the doctor broke 
in,— 

‘ ‘ Stocmar, — Hyman Stocmar, of the Regent’s ? ” 

“ The same. Do you know him, father? ” 

“ That do I, and well too. What of him? ” 

“It was to his care this young lady was intrusted,” said 
Alfred, blushing at the very thought of alluding to her. 

“ If there should be dealings with Stocmar, let them be 
left to me,” said the doctor, firmly. “I will be able to 
make better terms with him than either of you.” 

“I s’pose you’re not going to leave a gal that’s to have 
a matter of a million of dollars to be a stage-player ? She 
ain’t need to rant, and screech, and tear herself to pieces at 
ten or fifteen dollars a night and a free benefit.” 

“First to find her, then to assert her rights,” said the 
doctor. 

“ How are we to find her? ” asked Alfred. 

“ I will charge myself with that task, but we must be 
active too,” said the doctor. “ I half suspect that I see 


FOUND OUT. 


519 


the whole intrigue, — why this woman was separated from 
the young girl, why this fellow Trover was sent across the 
Atlantic, and what means that story of the large fortune so 
suddenly left to Winthrop.” 

I only know him slightly, sir,” said Quackinboss, break- 
ing in, “but no man shall say a word against Harvey P. 
Winthrop in my hearing.” 

“ You mistake me,” rejoined the doctor. “ It would be 
no impugnment of my honesty that some one bequeathed me 
an estate, — not that I think the event a likely one. So far 
as I can surmise, Winthrop is the only man of honor 
amongst them.” 

“ Glad to hear you say so, sir,” said the Colonel, gravely. 
“It’s a great victory over national prejudices when a Brit- 
isher gets to say so much for one of our people. It ’s the 
grand compensation you always have for your inferiority, to 
call our sharpness roguery.” 

It was a critical moment now, and it needed all Alfred’s 
readiness and address to separate two combatants so eager 
for battle. He succeeded, however, and, after some common- 
place conversation, contrived to carry his father away, on 
pretence of an engagement. 

“ You should have let me smash him,” muttered the old 
man, bitterly, as he followed him from the room. “ You 
should have given me fifteen minutes, — ay, ten. I’d not 
have asked more than ten to, present him with a fin- 
ished picture of his model Republican, in dress, manner, 
morals, and demeanor. I ’d have said, ‘ Here is what I 
myself have seen — ’ ” 

“ And I would have stopped you,” broke in Alfred, boldly, 
“ and laid my hand on Quackinboss’s shoulder, and said, 
‘ Here is what I have known of America. Here is one who, 
without other tie than a generous pity, nursed me through 
the contagion of a fever, and made recovery a blessing to 
me by his friendship after, — who shared heart and for- 
tune with me when I was a beggar in both.’ ” 

“ You are right, boy, — you are right. How hard it is to 
crush the old rebellious spirit in one’s nature, even after we 
have lived to see the evil it has worked us ! ” 


CHAPTER V. 


THE manager’s ROOM AT THE REGENT’S.’* 

At an early hour the next morning the two Laytons pre- 
sented themselves at the private door of the “ Regent’s.’^ 
Mr. Stocmar had returned that morning from Paris; he 
had been to bed for an hour, and was now dressed and 
up, but so busily engaged that he had left positive orders 
to be denied to all except to a certain high personage in the 
royal household, and a noble Lord, whose name he had 
given to the porter. 

“ We are not either of these,” said the doctor, smiling, 
“ but I am a very old friend, whom he did not know was in 
England. I have been scores of times here with him ; and 
to prove how I know my way through flats and side-scenes, 
I ’ll just step up to his room without asking you to conduct 
me.” These pleadings were assisted considerably by the dex- 
terous insinuation of a sovereign into the man’s hand ; and 
Layton passed in, with his son after him. 

True to his word, and not a little to Alfred’s astonishment, 
the doctor threaded his way through many a dark passage 
and up many a frail stair, till he reached the well-known, well- 
remembered door. He knocked sharply, but, without wait- 
ing for reply, turned the handle and entered. Stocmar, who 
stood at the table busily breaking the seals of a vast heap of 
letters, turned suddenly around and stared at the strangers* 
with mingled surprise and displeasure. 

“I gave positive orders that I could not receive strangers,” 
said he, haughtily. “ May I ask what is the meaning of this 
intrusion ? ” 

“ You shall know in a few moments, sir,” said the old man, 
deliberately taking a seat, and motioning to his son to do the 
same. “ My business could be transacted with yourself alone. 


THE MANAGER’S ROOM AT THE “REGENT’S/* 621 


and it would be useless referring me to a secretary or a trea- 
surer. I have come here with my son — ” 

“Oh, the old story!” broke in Stocmar. “ The young 
gentleman is stage-struck ; fancies that his Hamlet is better 
than Kean’s or Macready’s ; but I have no time for this sort 
of thing. The golden age of prodigies is gone by, and, at 
all events, I have no faith in it. Make an apothecary of 
him, clerk in a gas-works, or anything you please, only don’t 
come here to bother me, you understand ; my time is too full 
for these negotiations.” 

“ Have you done? ” said the old man, fiercely. 

“Done with yow, certainly,” said Stocmar, moving to- 
wards the bell. 

“ That you have not. You have not even begun , with me 
yet. I perceive you do not remember me.” 

“Remember you! I never saw you before, and I trust 
most sincerely I may never have that pleasure again. Any- 
thing wrong with the old party here?” whispered he, as he 
turned to Alfred, and touched his finger significantly to his 
forehead. 

“ Be quiet, boy ! ” cried Layton, fiercely, as his son started 
up to resent the insolence; “he shall soon learn whether 
there be or not. Our time, sir, if not so profitable as yours, 
has its value for ourselves, so that I will briefiy tell you what 
I came for. I want the addresses of two persons of your 
acquaintance.” 

“ This is beyond endurance. Am I to be the victim of 
every twaddling old bore that requires an address? Are 
you aware, sir, that I don’t keep an agency office?” 

With a calm self-possession which amazed his son, the 
old man quietly said, “I want this address, — and this.” 
And he handed Stocmar a card with two names written in 
pencil. 

“‘Clara Hawke’ — and who is Clara Hawke? I never 
heard of her till now; and ‘Mrs. Hawke’ too? My good 
friend, this is some self-delusion of yours. Take him away 
quietly, young gentleman, or my patience will not stand this 
any longer. I ’ll send for a policeman.” 

“There is one already in waiting, sir,” said old Layton, 
fiercely, “and with a warrant for the apprehension of Mr, 


522 


ONE OF THEM. 


Hyman Stocmar. Ay, sir, our laws give many a wide mar- 
gin to rascality, but slave-dealing is not legalized on our 
soil. Keep your laughter for the end, and see whether it 
will be so mirthful. Of that crime I mean to accuse you in 
an open court, the victim being myself. So, then, I have 
refreshed your memory a little ; you begin to recognize me 
now. Ay, sir, it is the professor, your old slave, stands 
before you, whom, after having starved and cheated, you 
put drunk on board a sailing-ship, and packed off to Amer- 
ica; sold, too, deliberately sold, for a sum of money. 
Every detail of this transaction is known to me, and shall 
be attested by competent witnesses. My memory is a better 
one than you suspect. I forget nothing, even to the day 
and the hour I last stood in this room. Yes,” cried he, 
turning to his son and addressing him, “I was summoned 
here to be exhibited as a spectacle to a visitor, and who, 
think you, was the distinguished friend to whose scrutiny I 
was to be subjected? He was one who himself had enjoyed 
his share of such homage, — he was no less a man than the 
famous Paul Hunt, tried at Jersey for the murder of God- 
frey Hawke, and how acquitted the world well knows ; and 
he it was who sat here, the dear friend of the immaculate 
Mr. Stocmar, — Mr. Stocmar, the chosen associate of lords 
and ladies, the favored guest of half the great houses in 
London. Oh, what a scandal and a disgrace is here ! You ’d 
rather face the other charge, with all its consequences, than 
this one. Where is your laughter now, Stocmar? Where 
that jocose humor you indulged in ten minutes ago?” 

“ Look here, my good friend,” cried Stocmar, suddenly 
starting up from his chair, while the great drops of sweat 
hung on his forehead and trickled along his pale cheeks ; 
“ don’t fancy that you can pit yourself against me before the 
public. 1 have station, friends, and patrons in the highest 
ranks in England.” 

“My name of Herbert Layton will suffice for all that I 
shall ask of it. When the true history of our connection 
shall be written and laid before the world, we shall see which, 
of us comes best out of the ordeal.” 

“ This, then, is a vengeance!” said Stocmar, trembling 
from head to foot. 


THE MANAGER’S ROOM AT THE “REGENT’S” 523 

“ Not if you do not drive me to it. There never were 
easier terms to escape a heavy penalty. Give me the address 
of these persons.” 

But 1 know nothing of them. I have not, amongst my 
whole acquaintance, one named Hawke.” 

The old man made no reply, and looked puzzled and con- 
fused. Stocmar saw his advantage, and.hastily added, — 

“ I am ready to pledge you my oath to this.” 

“Ask him, then, for the address of Mrs. Penthony 
Morris, father, and of the young lady her reputed daughter,” 
interposed Alfred. 

“ Ay, what say you to this? ” 

“ What I say is, that I am not here to be questioned as 
to the whereabouts of every real or imaginary name you can 
think of.” 

“ Restive again, Stocmar? What, are you so bent on 
your own ruin that you will exhaust the patience of one 
who never could boast too much of that quality ? I tell you 
that if I leave this room without a full and explicit answer 
to my demand, — and in writing, too, in your own hand, 
— you T1 not see me again except as your prosecutor in a 
court of justice. And now, for the last time, w^here is this 
woman? ” 

“She was in Italy; at Rome all the winter,” said Stocmar, 
doggedly. 

“I know that. And now? ” 

“In Germany, I believe.” 

“That is, you know, and the place too. Write it 
there.” 

“ Before I do so, you ’ll give me, under your own hand, 
a formal release from this trumpery charge, whose worst 
consequence would be my appearing in public to answer 
it.” 

“Nothing of the kind ; not a line to that effect. I ’ll keep 
it over you till the whole of the business we are engaged in 
be completed. Ay, sir, you shall not be exposed to the 
evil temptation to turn upon me. We have affairs to settle 
which will require our meeting with this woman, and as we 
live in an age of telegraphs, you shall not be able to warn 
her that we are coming; for if you do, I swear to you more 


524 


ONE OF THEM. 


solemnly than you swore awhile back to me, that I ’ll bring 
such disgrace upon your head that you ’ll walk the streets of 
this city as wretched an object as I was when I slept in that 
dog-hole behind the fire-engine.” 

“You ’ll do nothing with me by your threats, old man.” 

“Everything, all I ask, by what my threats can accom- 
plish. Remember, .besides, all that we require of you will 
only serve to shorten a road that we are determined to go. 
You can only help us so far. The rest lies with ourselves.” 

“Her address is Gebhardts-Berg, Bregenz,” said Stocmar, 
in a low muttering voice. 

“Write it, sir; write it there,” said the doctor, pointing 
to a sheet of paper on the table. 

“There, is that enough?” said Stocmar, as he wrote the 
words, and flung down the pen. 

“No, there is yet the other. Where is Clara Hawke?” 

“As to her, I may as well tell you she is bound to me by 
an indenture ; I have been at the charge of her instruction, 
and can only be repaid by her successes hereafter — ” 

“More of the slave market! ” broke in the doctor. “But 
to the question. Who sold her to you? She had neither 
father nor mother. With whom did you make your com- 
pact? Bethink you these are points you’ll have to answer 
very openly, and with reporters for the daily press amongst 
the company who listen to you. Such treaties being made 
public may lead to many an awkward disclosure. It were 
wiser not to provoke them.” 

“I do not see why I am to incur a positive loss of 
money — ” 

“Only for this reason, that as you thought proper to buy 
without a title, you may relinquish without compensation. 
But come, we will deal with you better than you deserve. 
If it be, as I believe, this young lady’s lot to inherit a large 
fortune, I will do my utmost to induce her to repay you all 
that you have incurred in her behalf. Will that satisfy 
you ? ” 

“It might, if I were not equally certain that you have 
not the slightest grounds for the expectation. I know 
enough of her story to be aware that there is not one from 
whom she expects a shilling.” 


THE MANAGER’S ROOM AT THE “REGENT’S.’* 525 


“Every day and hour brings us great surprises; nothing 
was less looked for by the great Mr. Stocmar this morning 
than a visit from me, and yet it has come to pass.” 

“And in whose interest, may I ask, are you taking all 
this trouble? — how is it incumbent on you to mix yourself 
up in questions of a family to which you do not belong, nor 
are even known to?” 

“If I can only fashion, to myself a pretext for your ques- 
tion, I would answer it; but to the matter, — write the 
address there.” And he pointed to the paper. 

Stocmar obeyed, and wrote, “The Conservatoire, at 
Milan.” 

“I may warn you,” added he, “that Mademoiselle Clara 
Stocmar, for as such is she inscribed, will not be given up 
to you, or to any one save myself, or by my order.” 

“I am aware of that, and therefore you will write this 
order. Mr. Stocmar, you need not be told by me that the 
fact of this girl being an English subject once admitted, the 
law of this country will take little heed of the regulations 
of a musical academy; save yourself this publicity, and 
write as I tell you.” 

Stocmar wrote some- hurried lines and signed them. 
“Will that do?” 

“Perfectly,” said he, folding up both papers, and placing 
them in his pocket. “Now, Mr. Stocmar, thus far has been 
all business between us. You have done me a small service, 
and for it I am willing to forgive a great wrong ; still, it is 
a fair bargain. Let us see, however, if we cannot carry 
our dealings a little further. Here is a case where a dread- 
ful scandal will be unburied, and one of the most fearful 
crimes be brought again before public notice, to herald the 
narrative of an infamous fraud. I am far from suspecting . 
or insinuating that you have had any great part whatever 
in these transactions, but I know that when once they have 
become town talk, Hyman Stocmar will figure as a prominent 
name throughout. He will not appear as a murderer or a 
forger, it is true, but he will stand forward the intimate 
friend of the worst characters in the piece, and have always 
some small petty share of complicity to answer for. Is it 
not worth while to escape such an open exposure as this? 


626 


ONE OF THEM. 


What man — least of all, what man moving where you do — 
could court such scandal ? ” 

Stocmar made no answer, but, leaning his head on his 
hand, seemed lost in thought. 

“I can show you how to avoid it all. I will point out the 
way to escape from the whole difficulty.” 

“How do you mean?” cried Stocmar, suddenly. 

“Leave the knaves and come over to the honest men; or 
desert the losing side and back the winner, if you like that 
better. In plain English, tell me all you know of this case,, 
and of every one concerned in it. Give me your honest 
version of the scheme, — how it has been done and by whom» 
You know Trover and Hunt well; say what were their sepa- 
rate shares. I will not betray your confidence; and if I 
can, I will reward it.” 

“Let 3^our son leave us. I will speak to you alone,” said 
Stocmar, in a faint whisper. 

Alfred, at a signal from his father, stepped quietly away, 
and they were alone. 

It was late in the afternoon when the doctor arose to take 
his departure, and, though somewhat wearied, his look was 
elated, and his face glowed with an expression of haughty 
satisfaction, such as it might have worn after a collegiate 
triumph years and years ago. 


CHAPTER VI. 


MR. o’ SHEA AT BADEN. 

Although Mr. O’Shea be not one of the most foreground 
figures in this piece, we are obliged to follow his fortunes 
for a brief space, and at a moment when our interests would 
more naturally call us in another direction. Thus, at a 
dinner-party, will it occasionally happen that our attention 
is engaged on one side, while our sympathies incline to the 
other; so, in life, the self-same incident continues to occur. 

We have said that he had many a sore misgiving about 
the enterprise he was engaged in. He felt that he was 
walking completely in the dark, and towards what he knew 
not. Mrs. Morris was, doubtless, a clever pilot, but she 
might mistake the course, she might go wrong in her sound- 
ings, and, lastly, she might chance to be on the shore when 
the ship was scuttled. These were dire mistrusts, not to say 
very ungallant suspicions, to haunt the heart and the head 
of a bridegroom ; but — alas ! that we must own it — Mr. 
O’Shea now occupied that equatorial position in life equally 
distant from the zones of youth and age, where men are 
most worldly, and disposed to take the most practical views 
of whatever touches their interests. It was very hard for 
him to believe that a woman of such consummate cleverness 
as the widow had ever written a line that could compromise 
her. He took a man’s view of the question, and fancied 
that a cool head is always cool, and a calculating heart 
always alive to its arithmetic. These letters, therefore, 
most probably referred to money transactions ; they were, in 
fact, either bills, or securities, or promises to pay, under 
circumstances, possibly, not the pleasantest to make public. 
In such affairs he had always deemed a compromise the best 
course ; why had she not given him a clearer insight into 


S28 


ONE OF THEM. 


Jiis mission? In fact, he was sailing with sealed orders, to 
be opened only on reaching a certain latitude. “At all 
•events, I can do nothing till she writes to me ; ” and with 
this grain of comfort he solaced himself as he went along 
his road, trying to feel at ease, and doing his utmost to 
persuade himself that he was a lucky fellow, and “ on the 
best thing ” that had ever turned up in his life. 

It is unpleasant for us to make the confession, but in his 
heart of hearts Mr. O’Shea thought of a mode of guiding 
himself thi’ough his difficulties, which assuredly was little 
in keeping with the ardor of a devoted lover. The ex- 
Member for Inch was a disciple of that sect — not a very 
narrow one — which firmly believes that men have a sort of 
masonic understanding amongst them always to be true to 
each other against a woman, and that out of a tacit compact 
of mutual protection they will always stand by each other 
against the common enemy. If, therefore, he could make 
Paten’s acquaintance, be intimate with him, and on terms 
of confidence, he might learn all the bearings of this case, 
and very probably get no inconsiderable insight into the 
fair widow’s life and belongings. 

Amidst a vast conflict of such thoughts as these he rolled 
along over the Spliigen Alps, down the Via Mala, and 
arrived at last at Baden. The season was at its full flood. 
There were a brace of kings there, and a whole covey of 
Serene Highnesses, not to speak of flocks of fashionables 
from every land of Europe. There was plenty of gossip, — 
the gossip of politics, of play, of private scandal. The 
well-dressed world was amusing itself at the top of its 
bent, and every one speaking ill of his neighbor to his own 
heart’s content. Whatever, however, may be the grand 
event of Europe, — the outbreak of a war, or a revolution, 
the dethronement of a king, or the murder of an emperor, 
— at such places as these the smallest incident of local 
origin will far out-top it in interest ; and so, although the 
world at this moment had a very fair share of momentous 
questions at issue, Baden had only tongues and ears for 
one, and that was the lucky dog that went on breaking the 
bank at rouge-et-noir about twice a week. 

Ludlow Paten was the man of the day. Now it was his 


MR. O’SHEA AT BADEN. 


529 


equipage, his horses; now it was the company he enter- 
tained at dinner yesterday, the fabulous sum he had given 
for a diamond ring, the incredible offer he had made for a 
ducal palace on the Rhine. Around these and such-like 
narratives there floated a sort of atmosphere of an imagina- 
tive order : how he had made an immense wager to win a 
certain sum by a certain day, and now only wanted some 
trifle of ten or twelve thousand pounds to complete it ; how, 
if he continued to break the bank so many times more, M. 
Bennasset, the proprietor, was to give him fifty thousand 
francs a year for life to buy him off, with twenty other vari- 
ations on these themes as to the future application of the 
money, some averring it was to ransom his wife from the 
Moors, and others, as positively, to pay off a sum with 
which he had absconded in his youth from a great banking- 
house in London ; and, last of all, a select few had revived 
the old diabolic contract on his behalf, and were firm in 
declaring that after he retired to his room at night he was 
heard for hours counting over his gains, and disputing with 
the Evil One, who always came for his share of the booty, 
and rigidly insisted on having it in gold. Now, it was 
strange enough that these last, however wild the superstruc- 
ture of their belief, had really a small circumstance in their 
favor, which was that Paten had been met with three or 
four times in most unfrequented places, walking with a man 
of very wretched appearance and most forbidding aspect, 
who covered his face when looked at, and was only to be 
caught sight of by stealth. The familiar, as he was now 
called, had been seen by so many that all doubt as to his 
existence was quite removed. 

These were the stories which met O’Shea on his arrival, 
and which formed the table-talk of the hotel he dined in ; 
narratives, of course, graced with all the illustrative powers 
of those who told them. One fact, however, impressed 
itself strongly on his mind, — that with a man so over- 
whelmed by the favors of Fortune, any chance of forming 
acquaintance casually was out of the question. If he were 
cleaned out of his last Napoleon, one could know him read- 
ily enough ; but to the fellow who can break the bank at 
will, archdukes and princes are the only intimates. His 

34 


530 


ONE OF THEM. 


first care was to learn his appearance. Nor had he long to 
wait ; the vacant chair beside the croupier marked the place 
reserved for the great player, whose game alone occupied 
the attention of the bystanders, and whose gains and losses 
were all marked and recorded by an expectant public. 
“Here he comes! That is he, leaning on the Prince of 
Tours, the man with the large beard 1 ” whispered a person 
in O’Shea’s hearing; and now a full, large man, over- 
weighty, as it seemed, for his years, pushed the crowd care- 
lessly aside, and seated himself at the table. The low 
murmur that went round showed that the great event of the 
evening was about to “come off,” and that the terrible con- 
flict of Luck against Luck was now to be fought out. 

More intent upon regarding the man himself than caring 
to observe his game, O’Shea stationed himself in a position 
to watch his features, scan their whole expression, and 
mark every varying change impressed upon them. His 
experience of the world had made him a tolerable physiog- 
nomist, and he read the man before him reasonably well. 
“He is not a clever fellow,” thought he, “he is only a reso- 
lute one; and, even as such, not persistent. Still, he will 
be very hard to deal with; he distrusts every man.” Just 
as O’Shea was thus summing up to himself, an exclamation 
from the crowd startled him. The stranger had lost an 
immense “coup;” the accumulation of five successful 
passes had been swept away at once, and several minutes 
were occupied in counting the enormous pile of Napoleons 
he had pushed across the table. 

The player sat apparently unmoved; his face, so far as 
beard and moustache permitted it to be seen, was calm and 
impassive; but O’Shea remarked a fidget}^ uneasiness in his 
hands, and a fevered impatience in the way he continued to 
draw off and on a ring which he wore on his finger. The 
game began again, but he did not bet; and murmuring 
comments around the room went on, some averring that he 
was a bad loser, who never had nerve for his reverses, and 
others as stoutly maintaining that he was such a consum- 
mate master of himself that he was never carried away by 
impulse, but, seeing fortune unfavorable, had firmness 
enough to endure his present defeat, and wait for a better 


MR. O’SHEA AT BADEN. 


531 


moment. Gradually the interest of the bystanders took 
some other direction, and Paten was unobserved, as he sat, 
to all seeming, inattentive to everything that went on before 
him. Suddenly, however, he placed twenty thousand francs 
in notes upon the table, and said, “Red.” The “Black” 
won ; and he pushed back his chair, arose, and strolled care- 
lessly into another room. 

O’Shea followed him; he saw him chatting away pleas- 
antly with some of his most illustrious friends, laughingly 
telling how unfortunate he had been, and in sportive vein 
declaring that, from the very fact of her sex, a man should 
not trust too much to Fortune. “I ’ll go and play dominoes 
with the Archduchess of Lindau,” said he, laughing; “it 
will be a cheap pleasure even if I lose.” And he moved off 
towards a smaller salon^ where the more exclusive of the 
guests were accustomed to assemble. 

Not caring to attract attention by appearing in a com- 
pany where he was not known to any, O’Shea sauntered out 
into the garden, and, tempted by the fresh night air, sat 
down. Chilled after a while, he resolved to take a brisk 
walk before bed-time, and set out in the avenue which leads 
to Lichtenthal. He had plenty to think of, and the time 
favored reflection. On and on he went at a smart pace, 
the activity of mind suggesting activity of body, and, 
before he knew it, had strolled some miles from Baden, 
and found himself on the rise of the steep ascent that leads 
to Eberstein. He was roused, indeed, from his musings 
by the passage of a one-horse carriage quite close to him, 
and which, having gained a piece of level ground, drew up. 
The door was quickly opened, and a man got out; the 
moonlight was full upon his figure, and O’Shea saw it was 
Paten. He looked around for a second or two, and then 
entered the wood. O’Shea determined to explore the mean- 
ing of the mystery, and, crossing the low edge, at once fol- 
lowed him. Guided by the light of the cigar which Paten 
was smoking, O’Shea tracked him till he perceived him to 
come to a halt, and immediately after heard the sound of 
voices. The tone was angry and imperious on both sides, 
and, in intense eagerness, O’Shea drew nigher and nigher. 

“None of your nonsense with me,” said a firm and reso- 


532 


ONE OF THEM. 


lute voice. “I know well how much you believe of such 
trumpery.” 

“I tell you again that I do believe it. As certain as I 
give you money, so certain am I to lose. Thursday week I 
gave you five Naps ; I lost that same night seventy thousand 
francs; on Wednesday last the same thing; and to-night 
two thousand Napoleons are gone. You swore to me, be- 
sides, so late as yesterday, that if I gave you twenty Louis, 
you'd leave Baden, to go back to England.” 

“So I would, but I 've lost it. I went in at roulette, and 
came out without sixpence; and I 'm sure it was not lend- 
ing brought bad luck upon me” added he, with a bitter 
laugh. 

“Then may I be cursed in all I do, if I give you another 
fraction! You think to tenfify me by exposure; but who 'll 
stand that test best, — the man who can draw on his banker 
for five thousand pounds, or the outcast who can’t pay for 
his dinner? Let the world know the worst of me, and say 
the worst of me, I can live without it, and you may die on 
a dunghill.” 

“Well, I 'm glad we 're come to this at last. Baden shall 
know to-morrow morning the whole story, and you will see 
how many will sit down at the same table with you. You 're 
a fool — you always were a fool — to insult a man as reck- 
less as I am. What have I to lose? They can’t try me 
over again any more than you. But you can be shunned 
and cut by your fine acquaintances, turned out of clubs, 
disowned on every hand — ” 

“Look here, Collier,” broke in Paten; “I have heard all 
that rubbish fifty times from you, but it doesn't terrify me. 
The man that can live as I do need never want friends or 
acquaintances ; the starving beggar it is who has no com- 
panionship. Let us start fair to-morrow, as you threaten, 
and at the end of the week let us square accounts, and see 
who has the best of it.” 

“I ’ll go into the rooms when they are most crowded, and 
I '11 say, ‘ The man yonder, who calls himself Ludlow Paten, 
is Paul Hunt, the acccomplice of Towers, that was hanged 
for the murder of Godfrey Hawke, at Jersey. My name is 
Collier; I never changed it. I, too, was in the dock on 


MR. O’SHEA AT BADEN. 


533 


that day. Here we stand,— he in fine clothes, and I in rags, 
but not so very remote as externals bespeak us.’ ” 

“In two hours after I’d have you sent over the frontier 
with a gendarme, as a vagabond, and without means of 
support, and I ’d be travelling post to Italy.” 

“To see the widow, I hope; to prosecute the wretched 
woman who once in her life thought you were not a 
scoundrel.” 

“Ay, and marry her, too, my respected friend, if the 
intelligence can give you pleasure to hear it. I’m sorry we 
can’t ask you to the wedding.” 

“No, that you’ll not; she. knows you, and while you 
cheated every one of us^ she discovered you to be the mean 
fellow you are, — ready, as she said, to have a share in every 
enterprise, provided you were always spared the peril. Do 
you recognize the portrait there, Paul Hunt, and can you 
guess the painter? ” 

“If she ever made the speech, she ’ll live to rue it.” 

“Not a bit of it, man. That woman is your master. 
You did your very best to terrify her, but you never suc- 
ceeded. She dares you openly ; and if I have to make the 
journey on foot, I ’ll seek her out in Italy, and say, ‘ Here 
is one who has the same hate in his heart that you have, and 
has less hold on life ; help him to our common object.’ It ’s 
not a cool head will be wanting in such a moment; so, look 
out ahead. Master Paul.” 

“You hint at a game that two can play at.” 

“Ay, but you ’re not one of them. You were always a 
coward.” 

A savage oath, and something like the noise of a struggle, 
followed. Neither spoke; but now O’Shea could distinctly 
mark, by the crashing of the brushwood, that they had either 
both fallen to the ground, or that one had got the other 
under. Before he could resolve what course to take, the 
sharp report of a pistol rung out, the hasty rustle of a man 
forcing through the trees followed, and then all was still. 
It was not till after some minutes that he determined to go 
forward. A few steps brought him to the place, where in a 
little alley of the wood lay a man upon his face. He felt 
his wrist, and then, turning him on his back, laid his hand 


534 


ONE OF THEM. 


on the heart. All was still ; he was warm, as if in life, but 
life had fled forever! A faint streak of moonlight had now 
just fallen upon the spot, and he saw it was Ludlow Paten 
who lay there. The ball had entered his left side, and 
probably pierced the heart, so instantaneous had been his 
death. While O’Shea was thus engaged in tracing the fatal 
wound, a heavy pocket-book fell from the breast-pocket. He 
opened it ; its contents were a packet of letters, tied with a 
string ; he could but see that they bore the address of Paul 
Hunt, but he divined the rest. They were hers. The great 
prize, for which he himself was ready to risk life, was now 
his own ; and he hastened away from the place, and turned 
with all speed towards Baden. 

It was not yet daybreak when he got back, and, gaining 
his room, locked the door. He knew not wh^^ he did so, but 
in the fear and turmoil of his mind he dreaded the possibility 
of seeing or being seen. He feared, besides, lest some chance 
word might escape him, some vague phrase might betray him 
as the witness of a scene he resolved never to disclose. Some- 
times, indeed, as he sat there, he would doubt the whole inci- 
dent, and question whether it had not been the phantasm of 
an excited brain ; but there before him on the table lay the 
letters; there they were, the terrible evidences of the late 
crime, and perhaps the proofs of guilt in another too! 

This latter thought nearly drove him distracted. There 
before him lay what secured to him the prize he sought for, 
and yet what, for aught he knew, might contain what would 
render that object a shame and a disgrace. It lay with him- 
self to know this. Once in her possession, he, of course, 
could never know the contents, or if by chance discovery 
came, it might come too late. He reasoned long and anx- 
iously with himself ; he tried to satisfy his mind that there 
were cases in which self-preservation absolved a man from 
what in less critical emergencies had been ignominious to 
do. He asked himself, “Would not a man willingly burn 
the documents whose production would bring him to disgrace 
and ruin? and, by the same rule, would not one eagerly 
explore those which might save him from an irreparable 
false step? At all events,” thought he, “Fortune has 
thrown the chance in my way, and so — ” He read them. 


if 









CHAPTER VII. 


THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ. 

There was something actually artistic in the choice old 
Holmes had made for his daughter’s residence near Bregenz. 
It was an old-fashioned farmhouse, with a deep eave, and a 
massive cornice beneath it. A wooden gallery ran the entire 
length, with a straggling stair to it, overgrown with a ver}^ 
ancient fig-tree, whose privilege it was to interweave through 
the balustrades, and even cross the steps at will^ the whole 
nearly hidden by the fine old chestnut-trees which clothe the 
Gebhardts-Berg to its very summit. It was the sort of spot 
a lone and sorrowing spirit might have sought out to weep 
away unseen, to commune with grief in solitude, and know 
nothing of a world she was no more to share in. The 
simple-hearted peasants who accepted them as lodgers asked 
no reason for their selection of the place, nor were they likely, 
in their strange dialect, to be able to discuss the point with 
others, save their neighbors. The chief room, which had 
three windows opening on a little terrace, looked out upon 
a glorious panorama of the Swiss Alps, with the massive 
mountains that lead to the Spliigen ; and it was at one of 
these Mrs. Morris — or rather, to give her that name by 
which for the last few pages of our story she may be called, 
Mrs. Hawke — now sat, as the sun was sinking, watching 
with an unfeigned enjoyment the last gorgeous tints of 
declining day upon the snow peaks. 

Perhaps at that moment the sense of repose was the most 
grateful of all sensations to her, for she had passed through 
a long day of excitement and fatigue. Like a great actress 
who had, in her impersonation of a difficult part, called forth 
all her powers of voice, look, and gesture, straining every 
fibre to develop to the utmost the passion she would convey, 


636 


ONE OF THEM. 


and tearing her very heart to show its agony, she was now 
to feel the terrible depression of reaction, the dreary void of 
the solitude around her, and the death-like stillness of her 
own subdued emotions. But yet, through all this, there was 
a rapturous enjoyment in the thought of a task accomplished, 
an ordeal passed. 

On that same morning it was Trover had arrived with Mr. 
Winthrop, and her first meeting took place with the friend of 
her late husband, — perhaps the one living being whom alone 
of all the world she felt a sort of terror at seeing. The fear 
he inspired was vague, and not altogether reasonable ; but 
it was there, and she could not master it. Till she met him, 
indeed, it almost overcame her ; but when she found him a 
mild old man, of gentle manners and a quiet presence, un- 
suspecting and frank, and extending towards her a compas- 
sionate protection, she rallied quickly from her fears, and 
played out her part courageously. 

How affecting was her grief ! It was one of those touch- 
ing pictures which, while they thrill the heart, never harrow 
the feelings. It was sorrow made beautiful, rather than dis- 
tressing. Time, of course, long years, had dulled the bitter- 
ness of her woe, and only cast the sombre coloring of sad- 
ness over a nature that might have been — who knows ? — 
made for joy and brightness. Unused to such scenes, the 
honest American could only sit in a sort of admiring pity of 
such a victim to an early sorrow ; so fair a creature robbed 
of her just meed of this world’s happiness, and by a terrible 
destiny linked with an awful event! And how lovely she 
was through it all, how forgiving of that man’s cruelty 1 He 
knew Hawke well, and he was no stranger to the trials a 
woman must have gone through who had been chained to hi& 
coarse and brutal nature ; and yet not a harsh word fell from 
her, not a syllable of reproach or blame. No ; she had all 
manner of excuses to make for him, in the evil influences 
by which he was surrounded, the false and bad men who 
assumed to be his friends. 

It was quite touching to hear her allude to the happiness 
of their early married life, — their contentment with humble 
fortune, their willing estrangement from a world of luxury 
and display, to lead an existence of cultivated pursuits and 


THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ. 537 

mutual affection. Winthrop was moved as he listened, and 
Trover had to wipe his eyes. 

Of the dreadful event of her life she skilfully avoided 
details, dwelling only on such parts of it as might illustrate 
her own good qualities, her devotion to the memory of one 
of whom she had much to pardon, and her unceasing affec- 
tion for his child. If the episode of that girl’s illness and 
death was only invented at the moment of telling, it lost 
nothing by the want of premeditation ; and Winthrop’s tears 
betrayed how he took to heart the desolate condition of that 
poor bereaved woman. 

“ I had resolved,” said she, “ never to avail myself of this 
fortune. To what end could I desire wealth ? I was dead 
to the world. If enough remained to support me through 
my lonely pilgrimage, I needed no more. The simple life of 
these peasants here offered me all that I could now care for, 
and it was in this obscure spot I meant to have ended my 
days, unnoticed and unwept. My dear father, however, a 
distinguished officer, whose services the Government is proud 
to acknowledge, had rashly involved himself in some specu- 
lations ; everything went badly with him, and he finished by 
losing all that he had laid by to support his old age. In this 
emergency I bethought me of that will ; but even yet I don’t 
believe I should have availed myself of its provisions if it 
were not that my father urged me by another and irresistible 
argument, which was that in not asserting my own claim, I 
was virtually denying j^ours. ‘ Think of Winthrop,’ said he. 

‘ Why should he be defrauded of his inheritance because you 
have taken a vow of poverty ? ’ He called it a vow of pov- 
ety,” said she, smiling through her tears, “ since I wore no 
better dress than this, nor tasted any food more delicate 
than the rough fare of my peasant neighbors.” 

If the costume to which she thus directed their attention 
was simple, it was eminently becoming, being, in reality, 
a sort of theatrical travesty of a peasant’s dress, made to 
fit perfectly, and admitting of a very generous view of 
her matchlhss foot and ankle; insomuch, indeed, that Mr. 
Winthrop could not help feeling that if poverty had its 
privations, it could yet be eminently picturesque. 

If Winthrop wished from time to time to ask some ques- 


.538 


ONE OF THEM. 


tion about this, or inquire into that, her answers invariably 
led him far afield, and made him even forget the matter he 
had been eager about. A burst of emotion, some suddenly 
recalled event, some long-forgotten passage brought back 
to mind in a moment, would extricate her from any diffi- 
culty ; and as to dates, — those awful sunk rocks of all 
unprepared fiction, — how could she be asked for these, — 
she, who really could not tell the very year they were then 
living in, had long ceased to count time or care for its on- 
ward course? There were things he did not understand; 
there were things, too, that he could not reconcile with each 
other; but he could not, at such a moment, suggest his 
doubts or his difficulties, nor be so heartless as to weary 
that poor crushed and wounded spirit by prolonging a scene 
so painful. 

When he arose to take his leave, they were like old friends. 
With a delicate tact all her own, she distinguished him 
especially from Mr. Trover; and while she gave Winthrop 
both her hands in his, she bestowed upon his companion a 
very cold smile and a courtesy. 

“Are they gone, — positively gone?” asked she of her 
father, who now entered the room, after having carefully 
watched the whole interview from a summer-house with a 
spy-glass. 

“Yes, dear; they are out on the road. I just overheard 
the American, as he closed the wicket, remark, ‘ She ’s the 
most fascinating creature I ever talked to ! ’ ” 

“I hope I am, papa. When one has to be a serpent, one 
ought surely to have a snake’s advantages! What a dear 
old creature that American is ! I really have taken a great 
liking to him. There is a marvellous attraction in the man 
that one can deceive without an effort, and, like the sheep 
who come begging to be eaten, only implores to be ‘ taken 
in again.’ ” 

“I never took my eyes off him, and I saw that you made 
him cry twice.” 

“Three times, papa, — three times; not to speak of many 
false attacks of sensibility that went off in deep sighs and 
chokings. Oh dear! am I not wearied? Fetch me a little 
lemonade, and put one spoonful — only one — of maraschino 


THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ. 


539 


in it. That wretch Trover almost made me laugh with his 
absurd display of grief. I HI not have him here to-morrow.” 

“And is Winthrop to come to-morrow? ” 

“Yes; and this evening too. He comes to-night to tea; 
he is so anxious to know you, papa; he has such a pleasant 
theory about that dear old man covered with wounds and 
honors, and devoting his declining years to console his poor 
afflicted child. You have put too much maraschino in 
this.” 

“One spoonful, on honor; but I mean to treat myself 
more generously. Well, I ’m heartily glad that the interview 
is over. It was an anxious thing to have before one, and 
particularly not knowing what manner of man he might be.” 

“That was the real difflculty. It ’s very hard to ‘ play 
up * to an unknown audience ! ” 

“I ’d not have asked them back this evening, Loo. It 
will be too much for you.” 

“I did not do so. It was Winthrop himself begged per- 
mission to come; but he promised that not a syllable of 
business was to transpire, so that I have only to be very 
charming, which, of course, costs nothing.” 

“I gather that all went smoothly on this morning. No 
difflculty anywhere?” 

‘‘None whatever. The account Trover gave us is fully 
borne out. The property is immense. There are, however, 
innumerable legal details to be gone through. I can’t say 
what documents and papers we shall not have to produce;* 
meanwhile our American friend most generously lays his 
purse at our disposal, and this blank check is to be filled at 
my discretion.” 

“‘Barnet and King,’” read he; “an excellent house. 

‘ Please to pay to Mrs. Hawke, or order.’ Very handsome 
of him, this, Loo; very thoughtful.” 

“Very thoughtful; but I’d as soon Trover had not been 
present; he ’s a greedy, grabbing sort of creature, and will 
insist upon a large discount out of it.” 

“Make the draft the bigger, darling; the remedy is in 
your own hands.” 

“Strange there should be no letter from O’Shea. I was 
full certain we should have heard something before this.” 


640 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Perhaps we may by this post, dear. It ought to have 
arrived by this time.” 

“Then go and see, by all means. How I hate a post that 
comes of an evening! One ought to begin the day with 
one’s letters; they are the evil fates, whose machinations 
all our efforts are directed against. They are, besides, the 
whispering of the storm that is brewing afar off, but is sure 
to overtake us. One ought to meet them with a well-rested 
brain and refreshed spirit, not wearied and jaded and un- 
strung by the day’s toil.” 

And the Captain prepared to obey, but not without a 
variety of precautions against catching cold, which seemed 
somewhat to try his daughter’s patience. 

“You really,” said she, with a half-bitter smile, “take 
very little account of the anxiety 1 must feel about my 
future husband.” 

“Nonsense, dear; the O’Shea is not to be thought of. It 
would really be a gross misuse of wealth to share it with 
such a man.” 

“So it might, if one were free to choose. But it ’s the old 
story, papa,” said she, with a sigh. “To be cured of the 
ague, one is willing to take arsenic. There, you are surely 
muffled enough now; lose no more time, and, above all 
things, don’t get into a gossiping mood, and stay to talk 
with Trover, or be seduced by Mr. Winthrop’s juleps, but 
come back at once, for I have a sort of feverish foreboding 
over me that I cannot control.” 

“How silly that is, dear! — to have a stout heart on the 
high seas and grow cowardly in the harbor.” 

“But are we in the harbor? Are we so vertj certain that 
the voyage is over?” said she, with increased eagerness. 
“But pray go for the letters, or I will myself.” 

He set out at last, and she watched him as he shut the 
wicket and crossed out upon the high-road; and then, all 
alone as she sat, she burst into a passionate flood of tears. 
Was this the relief of a nature strained like an over-bent 
bow? Was it the sorrowful outburst of a spirit which, 
however bold and defiant to the world, was craven to itself; 
or was it simply that fear had mastered her, and that she felt 
the approach of the storm that was to shipwreck her? 


THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ. 


641 


She must have been partly stunned by her sorrow, for she 
sat, no longer impatient, nor watching eagerly for his 
return, but in a sort of half-lethargic state, gazing out un- , 
consciously into the falling night that now closed in fast 
around her. 

It is neither a weak nor an ignorant theory that ascribes, 
even to the most corrupt natures, moments of deepest re- 
morse, sincere and true, aspirations after better things, and 
a willingness to submit to the severest penalties of the past, 
if only there be a “future” in store for them. Who can 
tell us what of these were now passing through the mind of 
her who sat at that window, brooding sorrowfully ? 

“Here ’s a letter for you. Loo, and a weighty one too,” 
said Holmes, entering the room, and approaching her before 
she was aware. “It was charged half a dollar extra, for 
overweight. I trust you T1 say it was worth the money.” 

“Fetch a light! get me a candle! ” cried she, eagerly; and 
she broke the seal with hands all trembling and twitching. 
“And leave me, papa; leave me a moment to myself.” 

He placed the candles at her side, and stole away. She 
turned one glance at the address, “To Mrs. Hawke,” and 
she read in that one word that the writer knew her story. 
But the contents soon banished other thoughts; they were 
her own long-coveted, long-sought letters; there they were 
now before her, time-worn and crumpled, records of a terri- 
ble season of sorrow and misery and guilt! She counted 
them over and over ; there were twenty-seven ; not one was 
missing. She did not dare to open them ; and even in her 
happiness to regain them was the darkening shadow of the 
melancholy period when they were written, — the long days 
of suffering and the nights of tears. So engrossed was she 
by the thought that they were now her own again, that the 
long tyranny of years had ended and the ever-impending 
shame departed, that she could not turn to learn how she 
came by them, nor through whom. At length this seemed 
to flash suddenly on her mind, and she examined the 
envelope, and found a small sealed note, addressed, as was 
the packet, “Mrs. Hawke.” O’Shea’s initials were in the 
corner. It contained but one line, which ran thus : — 

“I have read the enclosed. — G. O’S.” 


542 


ONE OF THEM. 


Then was it that th6 bitterness of her lot smote her with 
all its force, and she dropped down upon her knees, and, 
laying her head on the chair, sobbed as if each convulsive 
beat would have rent her very heart. 

Oh, the ineffable misery of an exposed shame! the terrible 
sense that we are to meet abroad and before the world the 
stern condemnation our conscience has already pronounced, 
and that henceforth we are to be shunned and avoided! 
There is not left to us any longer one mood of mind that can 
bring repose. If we are depressed, it is in the mourning of 
our guilt we seem to be dressed ; if for a moment we assume 
the air of light-heartedness, it is to shock the world by the 
want of feeling for our shame ! It is written that we are to 
be outcasts and live apart! 

“May I come in. Loo?” said a low voice from the half- 
opened doorway. It was her father, asking for the third 
time before she heard him. 

She uttered a faint “Yes,” and tried to rise; but her 
strength failing, she laid her head down again between her 
hands. 

“What is this, darling?” he said, stooping down over 
her. “What bad tidings have you got there? Tell me. 
Loo, for I may be able to lighten your sorrow for you.” 

“No,” said she, calmly, “that you cannot, for you cannot 
make me unlive the past! Read that.” 

“Well, I see nothing very formidable in this, dear. I 
can’t suppose that it is the loss of such a lover afflicts you. 
He has read them. Be it so. They are now in your own 
hands, and neither he nor any other will ever read them 
again. It would have been more interesting had he told us 
how he came by them; that was something really worth 
knowing ; for remember. Loo, — and it is, after all, the great 
point, — these are documents you were ready and willing 
to have bought up at a thousand pounds, or even more. 
Paten often swore he ’d have three thousand for them, and 
there they are now, safe in your own keeping, and not cost- 
ing you one shilling. Stay,” said he, laughing, “the post- 
age was about one-and-sixpence.” 

“And is it nothing to cost me open shame and ignominy? 
Is it nothing that, instead of one man, two now have read 


THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ. 


543 


the dark tracings of my degraded heart? Oh, father, even 
you might feel for the misery of exposure ! ” 

“But it is not exposure; it is the very opposite; it is, of 
all things, the most secret and secure. When these letters 
are burned, what accusation remains against you? The 
memory of two loose men about town. But who T1 believe 
them, or who cares if they be believed ? Bethink you that 
every one in this world is maligned by somebody, and finds 



somebody else to credit the scandal. Give me a bishop to 
blacken to-morrow, and see if I won’t have a public to adopt 
the libel. No, no. Loo; it’s a small affliction, believe me, 
that one is able to dispose of with a lucifer-match. Here, 
girl, give them to me, and never waste another thought on 
them.” 

“No,” said she, resolutel}^ “I’ll not burn them. What- 
ever I may ask of the world to think of me, I do not mean 
to play the hypocrite to myself. Lend me your hand, and 
fetch me a glass of water. I cannot meet these people to- 
night. You must go over to the inn, and say that I am ill. 



644 


ONE OF THEM. 


— call it a headache, — and add that I hope by to-morrow I 
shall be quite well again.” 

“Nay, nay, let them come, dear, and the very exertion will 
cheer you. You promised that American to sing him one 
of his nigger melodies, — don’t forget that.” 

“Go and tell them that I have been obliged to take to bed, 
father,” said she, in a hollow voice. “It is no falsehood to 
call me very ill.” 

“My dear Loo,” said he, caressingly, “all this is so 
unlike yourself. You^ that never lacked courage in your 
life ! that never knew what it was to be faint-hearted ! ” 

“Well, you see me a coward at last,” said she, in a faint 
voice. “Go and do as I bade you, father; for this is no 
whim, believe me.” 

The old man muttered out some indistinct grumblings, 
and left the room on his errand. 

She had not been many minutes alone when she heard the 
sharp sounds of feet on the gravel, and could mark the 
voices of persons speaking together with rapidity. One 
she quickly recognized as her father’s, the other she soon 
knew to be Trover’s. The last words he uttered as he 
reached the door were, “Arrested at once! ” 

“Who is to be arrested at once?” cried she, rushing 
wildly to the door. 

“We, if we are caught! ” said Holmes. “There ’s no 
time for explanation now. Get your traps together, and 
let us be off in quick time.” 

“It is good counsel he gives you,” said Trover. “The 
game is up, and nothing but flight can save us. The 
great question is, which way to go.” 

She pressed her hands to her temples for a moment, and 
then, as if recalled, by the peril, to her old activity of 
thought and action, said, — 

“Let Johann fetch his cousin quickly; they both row well, 
and the boat is ready at the foot of the garden. We can 
reach Rorschach in a couple of hours, and make our way over 
to St. Gall.” 

“And then?” asked Trover, peevishly. 

“We are, at least, in a mountain region, where there are 
neither railroads nor telegraphs.” 


THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ. 


545 


“She is right. Her plan is a good one, Trover,” broke 
in Holmes. “Go fetch what things you mean to take with 
you, and come back at once. We shall be ready by that 
time.” 

“If there be danger, why go back at all?” said she. 
“ Remember, I know nothing of the perils that you speak of, 
nor do I ask to know till we are on the road out of them. 
But stay here, and help us to get our pack made.” 

“Now you are yourself again! now I know you. Loo,” 
said Holmes, in a tone of triumph. 

In less than half an hour after they were skimming across 
the Lake of Constance as fast as a light skiff and strong 
arms could bear them. The nigh.t was still and calm, though 
dark, and the water without a ripple. 

For some time after they left the shore scarcely a 
word was spoken amongst them. At last Holmes whis- 
pered something in his daughter’s ear, and she rejoined 
aloud, — 

“Yes, it is time to tell me now; for, though I have sub- 
mitted myself to your judgment in this hasty flight, I am 
not quite sure the peril was as imminent as you believed it. 
What did you mean by talking of an arrest? Who could 
arrest us? And for what? ” 

“You shall hear,” said Trover; “and perhaps, when you 
have heard, you ’ll agree that I was not exaggerating our 
danger.” 

Not wishing to impose on our reader the minute details 
into which he entered, and the narrative of which lasted 
almost till they reached the middle of the lake, we shall give 
in a few words the substance of his story. While dressing 
for dinner at the inn, he saw a carriage with four posters 
arrive, and, in a very few minutes after, heard a loud voice 
inquiring for Mr. Harvey Winthrop. Suddenly struck by 
the strangeness of such a demand, he hastened to gain a 
small room adjoining Winthrop’s, and from which a door 
<;ommunicated, by standing close to which he could overhear 
all that passed. 

He had but reached the room and locked the door, when 
he heard the sounds of a hearty welcome and recognition 
exchanged within. The stranger spoke with an American 

36 


546 


ONE OF THEM. 


accent, and very soon placed the question of his nationality 
beyond a doubt. 

“You would not believe,” said he, “that I have been in 
pursuit of you for a matter of more than three thousand 
miles. I went down to Norfolk and to St. Louis, and was 
in full chase into the Far West, when I found I was on the 
wrong tack; so I ‘ wore ship ’ and came over to Europe.” 
After satisfying, in some degree, the astonishment this 
declaration excited, he went on to tell how he, through a 
chance acquaintance at first, and afterwards a close friend- 
ship with the Laytons, came to the knowledge of the story 
of the Jersey murder, and the bequest of the dying man 
on his daughter’s behalf, his interest being all the more 
strongly engaged because every one of the localities was 
familiar to him, and his own brother a tenant on the very 
land. All the arts he had deployed to trace out the girl’s 
claim, and all the efforts, with the aid of the Laytons, he 
had made to find out Winthrop himself, he patiently 
recounted, mentioning his accidental companionship with 
Trover, and the furtive mode in which that man had 
escaped him. It was, however, by that very flight Trover 
confirmed the suspicion he had attached to him, and so the 
stranger continued to show that from the hour of his escape 
they had never “lost the track.” How they had crossed the 
Atlantic he next recorded, — all their days spent in discuss- 
ing the one theme; no other incident or event ever occupy- 
ing a moment’s attention. “We were certain of two things,” 
said he: “there was a deep snare, and that girl was its 
victim.” He confessed that if to himself the inquiry 
possessed a deep interest, with old Layton it had become a 
passion. 

“At last,” continued Trover, “he began to confess that 
their hopes fell, and each day’s discomfiture served to chill 
the ardor that had sustained them, when a strange and most 
unlooked-for light broke in upon them by the discovery of a 
few lines of a note written by you to Dr. Layton himself 
years before, and, being produced, was at once recognized 
as the handwriting of Mrs. Penthony Morris.” 

“Written by me! How could I have written to him? I 
never heard of him,” broke she in. 


THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ. 


54T 


“Yes, he was the doctor who attended Hawke in his last 
illness, and it appeared you wrote to beg he would cut off a 
lock of hair for you, and bring it to you.” 

“I remember that,” said she, in a hollow voice, “though 
I never remembered his name was Layton. And he has this 
note still ? ” 

“You shall hear. No sooner had his son — ” 

“You cannot mean Alfred Layton? ” 

“Yes; the same. No sooner had he declared that he 
knew the hand, than they immediately traced you in Mrs. 
Penthony Morris, and knowing that Stocmar had become 
the girl’s guardian, they lost no time in finding him out. 
I was too much flurried and terrified at this moment to col- 
lect clearly what followed, but I gathered that the elder 
Layton held over him some threat which, if pushed to execu- 
tion, might ruin him. By means of this menace, they made 
Stocmar confess everything. He told who Clara was, how 
he had gained possession of her, under what name she went, 
and where she was then living. Through some influence 
which I cannot trace, they interested a secretary of state in 
their case, and started for the Continent with strong letters 
from the English authorities, and a detective officer spe- 
cially engaged to communicate with the foreign officials, 
and permit, when the proofs might justify, of an arrest.” 
“How much do they know, then? ” asked she, calmly. 

“ They know everything. They know of the forged will, 
the false certificate of death, and Winthrop has confirmed 
the knowledge. Fortunately, I have secured the more im- 
portant document. I hastened to his room while they were 
yet talking, opened his desk, and carried away the will. 
As to the certificate, the Laytons and the detective had set 
off for Meisner the moment after reaching Bregenz, to 
establish its forged character.” 

“Who cares for that?” said she, carelessly. “It is a 
trifling offence. Where is the other, — the will ? ” 

“I have it here,” said he, pointing to his breast-pocket. 
“Let us make a bonfire, then,” said she, “for I, too, have 
some inconvenient records to get rid of. I thought of 
keeping them as memories, but I suspect I shall need no 
reminders.” 


548 


ONE OF THEM. 


While Trover tore the forged will in pieces, she did the 
like by the letters, and, a match being applied to the fiag- 
ments, the flames rose up, and in a few seconds the black- 
ened remnants were carried away by the winds, and lost. 

“So, then, Mr. Trover,” said she, at length, “Norfolk 
Island has been defrauded of your society for this time. 
By the way, papa, is not this Dr. Layton your friend as 
well as mine ? ” 

“Yes, Loo, he is the man of ozone and vulcanized zinc, 
and I don’t know what else. I hoped he had died ere this.” 

“No, papa, they don’t die. If you remark, you ’ll see that 
the people whose mission it is to torment are wonderfully 
long-lived, and if I were an assurance agent, I ’d take far 
more account of men’s tempers than their gout tendencies 
and dropsies. Was there any allusion to papa, Mr. 
Trover? ” 

“Yes; old Layton seems to have a warrant, or something 
of the kind, against him, on a grave charge, but I had no 
mind to hear what.” 

“So that, I suppose,” said she, laughing, “I am the only 
‘ innocent ’ in the company ; for you know, Mr. Trover, 
that I forged nothing, falsified nothing; I was betrayed, 
by my natural simplicity of character, into believing that 
a fortune was left me. I never dreamed that Mr. Trover 
was a villain.” 

“I don’t know how you take it so easily. We have es- 
caped transportation, it is true, but we have not escaped 
public shame and exposure,” said Trover, peevishly. 

“She ’s right, though. Trover, — she ’s right. One never 
gets in the true frame of mind to meet difficulties till one 
is able to laugh a little at them.” 

“Not to mention,” added she, “that there is a ludicrous 
side in all troubles. I wonder how poor dear Mr. Win- 
throp bears his disappointment, worse than mine, in so far 
that he has travelled three thousand miles to attain it.” 

“Oh, he professes to be charmed. I heard him say, 
‘ Well, Quackinboss, I ’m better pleased to know that the 
poor girl is alive than to have a million of dollars left 
me.* ” 

“You don’t say the stranger was Quackinboss, the dear 


THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ. 


549 


Yankee we were all so fond of long ago at Marlia, and 
whom I never could make in love with me, though I did my 
very best? Oh, father, is it not provoking to think of all 
the old friends we are running away from ? Colonel Quack- 
inboss, Dr. Layton, and Alfred! every one of them so 
linked to us by one tender thought or another. What a 
charming little dinner we might have had to-morrow; the 
old doctor would have taken me in, whispering a little dole- 
ful word, as we went, about the Hawke’s Nest, and long 
ago; and you and he would have had your scientific talk 
afterwards ! ” 

How old Holmes laughed at the pleasant conceit! It 
was really refreshing to see that good old man so cheery 
and light of heart; the very boat shook with his jollity. 

“ Listen ! — do listen! ” said Trover, in an accent of ter- 
ror. “I’m certain I heard the sound of oars following 
us.” 

“ Stop rowing for a moment,” said she to the boatmen; 
and as the swift skiff glided noiselessly along, she bent 
down her head to listen. “ Yes,” said she, in a low, quiet 
voice, “ Trover is right ; there is a boat in pursuit, and 
they, too, have ceased pulling now, to trace us. Ha ! 
there they go again, and for Lindau too ; they have heard, 
perhaps, the stroke of oars in that direction.” 

“ Let our fellows pull manfully, then, and we are safe,” 
cried Trover, eagerly. 

“ No, no,” said she, in the same calm, collected tone. 
“The moon has set, and there will be perfect darkness till 
the day breaks, full two hours off. We must be still, so long 
as they are within hearing of us. I know well. Trover, what 
a tax this imposes on your courage, but it can’t be helped.” 

“Just so. Trover,” chimed in Holmes. “ She commands 
here, and there must be no mutin}^” 

The wretched man groaned heavily, but uttered no word 
of reply. 

“I wish that great chemical friend of yours, papa, — the 
wonderful Dr. Layton, — had turned his marvellous mind 
to the invention of invisible fire. I am dying for a cigar 
now, and I am afraid to light one.” 

“ Don’t think of it, for mercy’s sake ! ” broke in Trover. 


550 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ Pray calm yourself, I have not the slightest fancy for 
being overtaken by this interesting party, nor do I think 
papa has either, — not that our meeting could have any 
consequence beyond mere unpleasantness. If they should 
come up with us, I am as ready to denounce the deceit- 
ful Mr. Trover as any of them.” 

“ This is very poor jesting, I must say,” muttered he, 
angrily. 

“ YouTl find it, perhaps, a very serious earnest if we’re 
caught.” 

“ Come, come. Loo, forgive him; he certainly meant all 
for the best. I ’m sure you did. Trover,” said old Holmes, 
with the blandest of voices. 

“ Why, what on earth do you mean? ” cried he. “ You are 
just as deep in the plot as I am. But for you, how should I 
have known about Hawke’s having any property in America, 
or that he had any heir to it ? ” 

“ I am not naturally suspicious. Trover,” said she, with 
mock gravity, “ but I declare I begin to believe you are a 
bad man, — a very bad man ! ” 

“I hope and trust not. Loo,” said old Holmes, fervently; 
“ I really hope not.” 

“ It is no common baseness that seeks for its victim the 
widow and the fatherless. Please to put that rug under my 
feet. Trover. There are barristers would give their eye-tooth 
for such an opening for invective. I have one fat friend in 
my eye would take the brief for mere pleasure of blackguard- 
ing you. You know whom I mean, papa.” 

“You may push a joke too far, Mrs. Morris, — or 
Mrs. Hawke, rather,” said Trover, rudely, “ for I don’t 
know by which name you will be pleased to be known in 
future.” 

“ I am thinking very seriously of taking a new one. Trover, 
and the gentleman who is to share it with me will probably 
answer all your inquiries on that and every other subject. I 
trust, too, that he will meet us to-morrow.” 

“Well, if I were Trover, I’d not pester him with ques- 
tions,” said Holmes, laughingly. 

“ Don’t you think they might take to their oars again, 
now?” asked Trover, in a very beseeching tone. 


THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ. 


551 


“Poor Mr. Trover! ” said she, with a little laugh. “It 
is really very hard on him 1 I have a notion that this night’s 
pleasuring on the Lake of Constance will be one of the least 
grateful of his recollections.” Then turning to the boatmen, 
she bade them “ give way ” with a will, and pull their best for 
Rorschach. 

From this time out nothing was said aloud, but Holmes 
and his daughter spoke eagerly together in whispers, while 
Trover sat apart, his head turned towards where the shadow 
of large mountains indicated the shore of the lake. 

“ A’n’t you happy now, Mr. Trover?” said she, at length, 
as the boat glided into a little cove, where a number of fish- 
ing-craft lay at anchor. “ A’n’t you happy? ” 

Either smarting under what he felt the sarcasm of her 
question, or too deeply immersed in his own thoughts, he 
made no reply whatever, but as the boat grated on the 
shingly beach he sprang out and gained the land. In an- 
other minute the boatmen had drawn the skiff high and 
dry, on the sand, and assisted the others to disembark. 

“How forgetful you are of all gallant attentions!” said 
she, as Trover stood looking on, and never offering any 
assistance whatever. “Have you got any silver in your 
purse, papa?” 

“I can’t see what these pieces are,” said Holmes, trying 
to peer through the darkness. 

“Pay these people. Trover,” said she, “and be liberal 
with them. Remember from what fate they have saved 
you.” And as she spoke she handed him her purse. ‘‘We’ll 
saunter slowly up to the village, and you can follow us.” 

Trover called the men around him, and proceeded to settle 
their fare, while Holmes and his daughter proceeded at an 
easy pace inland. 

“How much was there in your purse, Loo?” asked 
Holmes. 

“Something under twenty Napoleons, papa; but it will 
be quite enough.” 

“ Enough for what, dear? ” 

“ Enough to tempt poor Mr. Trover. We shall never see 
more of him.” 

“ Do you really think so? ” 


652 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ I am certain of it. He was thinking of nothing else 
than how to make his escape all the time we were crossing 
the lake, and I, too, had no more pressing anxiety than how 
to get rid of him. Had I offered him a certain sum, we 
should have had him for a pensioner as long as he lived, 
but by making him steal the money I force him to be his 
own security that he ’ll never come back again. It was for 
this that I persisted in acting on his fears in the boat ; the 
more wretched we made him the cheaper he became, and 
when he heaved that last heavy sigh, I took ten Napoleons 
off his price.” 

Holmes had to stop walking, and hold his hands to his 
sides with laughter. The device seemed to him about the 
best practical joke he had ever heard of. Then ceasing 
suddenly, he said, — 

“ But what if he were to go back to the others, Loo, and 
turn approver against us ? ” 

“We are safe enough on that score. He has nothing to- 
tell them that they do not know already. They have got 
to the bottom of all the mystery, and they don’t want 
him.” 

“ Still it seems to me. Loo, that it might have been safer 
to keep him along with us, — under our eye, as it were.” 

“ Not at all, papa. It is as in a shipwreck, where the 
plank that will save two will sink with three. The stratagem 
that will rescue us would be probal?ly marred by him, and, 
besides, he’ll provide for his own safety better than we 
should.” 

Thus talking, they entered the little village, where, although 
not yet daybreak, a small cafe was open, — one of those 
humble refreshment-houses frequented by peasants on their 
way to their daily toil. 

“Let us breakfast here,” said she, ‘'while they are getting 
ready some light carriage to carry us on to St. Gall. I have 
an old friend there, the prior of the monasterj’^, who used to 
be very desirous to convert me long ago. I intend to give 
him a week or ten days’ trial now, papa ; and he may also, 
if he feel so disposed, experiment upon you” 

It was in this easy chit-chat they sat down to their coffee 
in the little inn at Rorschach. They were soon, however, on 


THE COTTAGE NEAR BREGENZ. 55g 

the road again, seated in a little country carriage drawn by 
a stout mountain pony. 

“ Strange enough all this adventure seems,’* said she, as 
they ascended the steep mountain on foot, to relieve the 
weary beast. “ Sometimes it appears all like a dream to 
me, and now, when I look over the lake there, and see the 
distant spires of Bregenz yonder, I begin to believe that 
there is reality in it, and that we are acting in a true 
drama.” 

Holmes paid but little attention to her words, wrapped up 
as he was in some details he was reading in a newspaper he 
had carried away from the cafe, 

“ What have you found to interest you so much there, 
papa?” asked she, at last. 

Still he made no reply, but read on. 

“ It can scarcely be that you are grown a politician again,” 
continued she, laughingly, “ and pretend to care for Austria 
or for Italy.” 

“This is all about Paten,” said he, eagerly. “There’s 
the whole account of it.” 

“ Account of what? ” cried she, trying to snatch the paper 
from him. 

“ Of his death.” 

“ His death ! Is he dead ? Is Paten dead ? ” She had to 
clutch his arm as she spoke to support herself, and it was 
only with the greatest difficulty that she kept her feet. 
“ How was it? Tell me how he came by his death. Was it 
O’Shea?” 

“ No, he was killed. The man who did it has given him- 
self up, alleging that it was in an altercation between them ; 
a pistol, aimed at his own breast, discharged its contents in 
paten’s.” 

She tore the paper from his hand, and, tottering over to a 
bank on the roadside, bent down to read it. Holmes con- 
tinued to talk over the event and all the details, but she did 
not hear what he said. She had but senses for the lines she 
was perusing. 

“I thought at first it was O’Shea in some disguise. But 
it cannot be; for see, they remark here that this man has 
been observed loitering about Baden ever since Paten 


554 


ONE OF THEM. 


arrived. Oh, here's the mystery,” cried she. “His name 
is Collier.” 

“ That was an old debt between them, ” said Holmes. 

‘‘I hope there will be no discovery as to Paten's real 
name. It would so certainly revive the old scandal.” 

“We can scarcely expect such good luck as that, Loo. 
There is but one thing to do, dear; we must put the sea be- 
tween us and our calumniators.” 

‘‘How did O’Shea come by the letters if he had no hand 
in it? ” 

“ Perhaps he had ; perhaps it was a concerted thing ; per- 
haps he bought up the letters from Collier afterwards. Is 
it of the least consequence to us how he got them ? ” 

“Yes, Collier might have read them,” said she, in a hol- 
low voice; and as Holmes, startled by the tones, turned 
round, he saw that she had a sickening faintness over her, 
and that she trembled violently. 

“Where's your old courage. Loo?” said he, cheeringly. 
“Paten is gone. Collier has a good chance of being sent 
after him, and here we are, almost the only actors left of 
the whole drama.” 

“That's true, papa, very true; and as we shall have to 
play in the afterpiece, the sooner we get the tragedy out of 
our heads the better.” 

They remounted the carriage, and went on their way. 
There, where the beech-trees bend across the road, it is 
there they have just disappeared ! The brisk tramp of the 
pony can be heard even yet ; it grows fainter and fainter, 
and only the light train of dust now marks their passage. 
They are gone ; and we are to see them no more ! 


CHAPTER Vm. 


CONSULTATION. 

Every host has had some experience of the fact that there 
are guests of whom he takes leave at the drawing-room 
door, and others who require that he should accompany them 
to the very frontier of his kingdom, and only part with as 
they step into their carriage. The characters of a story 
represent each of these classes. Some make their exit 
quietly, unobtrusively; they slip away with a little gesture 
of the hand, or a mere look to say adieu. Others arise with 
a pretentious dignity from their places, and, in the ruffle of 
their voluminous plumage, seem to say, “When we spread 
out our wings for flight, the small birds may flutter away to 
their nests.” It is needless that we should tell our readers 
that we have reached that critical moment. The dull roll 
of carriages to the door, and the clank of the let-down steps 
tell that the hour of departure has arrived, and that the 
entertainer will very soon be left all alone, without “One 
of Them.” 

As in the real world, no greater solecism can be com- 
mitted than to beg the uprising guest to reseat himself, nor 
is there any measure more certain of disastrous failure; so 
in fiction, when there is a move in the company, the sooner 
they all go the better. 

While I am painfully impressed with this fact, — while I 
know and feel that my last words must be very like the 
leave-takings of that tiresome button-holder who, great- 
coated and muffled himself, will yet like to detain you in the 
cold current of a doorway, — I am yet sensible of the defer- 
ence due to those who have indulgently accompanied me 
through my story, and would desire to leave no questions 


656 


ONE OF THEM. 


unanswered with regard to those who have figured before 
him. 

Mr. Trover, having overheard the dialogue which had such 
an intimate bearing on his own fortunes, lost no time, as 
we have seen, in quitting the hotel at Bregenz ; and although 
Winthrop expected to see him at dinner, he was not sur- 
prised to hear that he had left a message to say he had gone 
over to the cottage to dine with Mrs. Hawke. It was with 
an evident sense of relief that the honest American learned 
this fact. There was something too repulsive to his nature 
in the thought of sitting down at the same table in apparent 
good fellowship with the man whom he knew to be a villain, 
and whose villany a very few hours would expose to the 
world ; but what was to be done ? Quackinboss had insisted 
on the point; he had made him give a solemn pledge to 
make no change in his manner towards Trover till such time 
as the Laytons had returned with full and incontestable 
proofs of his guilt. 

“We’ll spoil everything, sir,” said Quackinboss, “if we 
harpoon him in deep water. We must go cautiously to 
work, and drive him up, gradually, towards the shallows, 
where, if one miss, another can strike him. ” 

Winthrop was well pleased to hear that the “chase ” was 
at least deferred, and that he was to dine t^te-a-tete with his 
true-hearted countryman. 

Hour after hour went over, and in their eager discussion 
of the complicated intrigue they had unravelled, they lost 
all recollection of Trover or his absence. It was the char- 
acter of the woman which absorbed their entire thoughts ; and 
while Winthrop quoted her letters, so full of beautiful senti- 
ments, so elevated, and so refined, Quackinboss related many 
little traits of her captivating manner and winning address. 

“It’s all the same in natur’, sir,” said he, summing up. 
“Where will you see prettier berries than on the deadly 
nightshade ? and do you think that they was made to look 
so temptin’ for nothing? Or wasn’t it jest for a lesson to 
us to say, ‘Be on your guard, stranger; what’s good to 
look at may be mortal bad to feed on.’ There ’s many a 
warnin’ in things that don’t talk with our tongues, but have 
a language of their own.” 


CONSULTATION. 


65T 


“Very true all that, sir,” resumed the other; “but it was 
always a puzzle to me why people with such good faculties 
would make so bad a use of them.” 

“ Ain’t it all clear enough they was meant for examples, 
— jest that and no more? You see that clever fellow 
yonder; he can do fifty things you and I couldn’t; he has 
got brains for this, that, and t’other. Well, if he ’s a rogue, 
he won’t be satisfied with workin’ them brains God has given 
him, because he has no right sense of thankfulness in his 
heart, but he ’ll be counterfitin’ all sorts of brains that he 
hasn’t got at all: these are the devil’s gifts, and they do 
the devil’s work.” 

“I know one thing,” said Winthrop, doggedly, “it is that 
sort of folk make the best way in life.” 

“Clear wrong — all straight on end — unsound doctrine 
that, sir. We never think of countin’ the failures, the chaps 
that are in jail, or at the galleys, or maybe hanged. We 
only take the two or three successful rogues that figure in 
high places, and we say, ‘ So much for knavery.’ Now let 
me jest ask you. How did they come there? Wasn’t it by 
pretendin’ to be good men? Wasn’t it by mock charity, 
mock patriotism, mock sentiment in fifty ways, supported 
now and then by a bit of real action, just as a forger always 
slips a real gold piece amongst his counterfeits? And what 
is all this but sayin’ the way to be prosperous is to be 
good — ” 

“Or to seem good! ” broke in Winthrop. 

“Well, sir, the less we question seemin’ the better! I ’d 
rather be taken in every day of the week than I ’d go on 
doubtin’ every hour of the day, and I believe one must come 
very nigh to either at last.” 

As they thus chatted, a light post-carriage rolled into the 
inn yard, and Dr. Layton and Alfred hastily got out and 
made for the apartment of their friends. 

“Just as I said, — just as I foretold, — the certificate 
forged, without giving themselves the trouble to falsify the 
register,” broke in Layton. “We have seen the book at 
Meisner, and it records the death of a certain ser\dng- 
woman, Esther Baumhardt, who was buried there seven 


658 


ONE OF THEM. 


years ago. All proves that these people, in planning this 
knavery, calculated on never meeting an opponent.” 

“Where is this Mr. Trover?” said Alfred. “I thought 
we should find him here in all the abandonment of friendly 
ease.” 

“He dined at the cottage with his other friends,” said 
Winthrop, “for the which I owe him all my gratitude, for I 
own to you I had sore misgivings about sitting down with 
him.” 

“I could n’t have done it,” broke in the old doctor. “My 
first mouthful would have choked me. As it is, while I wait 
to denounce his guilt, I have an uneasy sense of complicity, 
as though I knew of a crime and had not proclaimed it to 
the world.” 

“Well, sir,” said Quackinboss, and with a sententious 
slowness, ‘‘ I ain’t minded like either of you. My platform 
is this : Rogues is varmin ; they are to the rest of mankind 
what wolves and hyenas is to the domestic animals. Now, 
it would not be good policy or good sport to pison these 
critturs. What they desarve is to be hunted down ! It is 
a rare stimulus to a fellow’s blood to chase a villain. 
Since I have been on this trail I feel a matter of ten years 
younger.” 

And I am impatient to follow up the chase,” said the 
doctor, who in his eagerness walked up and down the room 
with a fretful anxiety. 

“Remember,” said Alfred, “that however satisfied we 
ourselves may be on every point of these people’s culpa- 
bility, we have no authority to arrest them, or bring them 
to justice. We can set the law in motion, but not usurp its 
action.” 

“And are they to be let go free?” asked Quackinboss. 
“Is it when we have run ’em to earth we ’re to call off the 
dogs and go home? ” 

“He’s right, though. Colonel,” said Winthrop. “Down 
in our country, mayhap, we ’d find half a dozen gentlemen 
who ’d make Mr. Trover’s trial a very speedy affair; but 
here we must follow other fashions.” 

“Our detective friend says that he’ll not leave them till 
you have received authority from home to demand their 


CONSULTATION. 


659 


extradition,” said the doctor. “I take it for granted forgery 
is an offence in every land in Europe, and, at all events, no 
State can have any interest in wishing to screen them.” 

While they thus talked, Alfred Layton rang the bell, and 
inquired if Mr. Trover had returned. 

The waiter said, “No.” 

“Why do you ask?” said the doctor. “It just occurred 
to me that he might have seen us. as we drove up. He knows 
the Colonel and myself well.” 

“And you suspect that he is off, Alfred?” 

“It is not so very unlikely.” 

“Let us down to the cottage, then, and learn this at once,” 
said Quackinboss; “I’d be sore riled if he was to slip his 
cable while we thought him hard aground.” 

“Yes,” said the doctor. “We need not necessarily go 
and ask for him; Winthrop can just drop in to say a‘ good- 
evening,’ while we wait outside.” 

“I wish you had chosen a craftier messenger,” said Win- 
throp, laughing. And now, taking their hats, they set out 
for the Gebhardts-Berg. 

Alfred contrived to slip his arm within that of Quackin- 
boss, and while the others went on in front, he sauntered 
slowly after with the Colonel. He had been anxiously 
waiting for a moment when they could talk together, and 
for some days back it had not been possible. If the others 
were entirely absorbed in the pursuit of those who had 
planned this scheme of fraud, Alfred had but one thought, 

— and that was Clara. It was not as the great heiress he 
regarded her, not as the owner of a vast property, all at her 
own disposal ; he thought of the sad story that awaited her, 

— the terrible revelation of her father’s death, and the 
scarcely less harrowing history of her who had supplied the 
place of mother to her. “She will have to learn all this,” 
thought he, “and at the moment that she hears herself called 
rich and independent, she will have to hear of the open 
shame and punishment of one who, whatever the relations 
between them, had called her her child, and assumed to 
treat her as her own.” 

To make known all these to Quackinboss, and to induce 
him, if he could, to regard them in the same light that they 


^60 


ONE OF THEM. 


appeared to himself, was young Layton’s object. Without 
any preface he told all his fears and anxieties. He pictured 
the condition of a young girl entering life alone, heralded 
by a scandal that would soon spread over all Europe. Would 
not any poverty with obscurity be better than fortune on 
such conditions ? Of what avail could wealth be, when every 
employment of it would bring up an odious history? and 
lastly, how reconcile Clara herself to the enjoyment of her 
good fortune, if it came associated with the bitter memory of 
others in suffering and in durance? If he knew anything of 
Clara’s heart, he thought that the sorrow would far outweigh 
the joy the tidings of her changed condition would bring 
her ; at least, he hoped that he had so read her nature aright, 
and it was thus that he had construed it. 

If Quackinboss had none of that refined appreciation of 
sentiment which in a certain measure is the conventionality 
of a class, he had what is infinitely and immeasurably 
superior, a true-hearted sympathy with everything human. 
He was sorely sorry for “that widow- woman.” He had for- 
gotten none of the charms she threw around their evenings 
at Marlia long ago, and he was slow to think that these 
fascinations should always be exercised as snares and de- 
ceptions, and, last of all, as he said, “We have never heard 
her story yet, — we know nothing of how she has been 
tried.” 

“What is it, then, that you propose to do?” asked the 
Colonel, at the end of a somewhat rambling and confused 
exposition by young Layton. 

“Simply this: abandon all pursuit of these people; spare 
them and spare ourselves the pain and misery of a public 
shame. Their plot has failed; they will never attempt to 
renew it in any shape; and, above all, let not Clara begin 
the bright path before her by having to pass through a 
shadow of suffering and sorrow.” 

“Ay, there is much in what you say; and now that we 
have run the game to earth, I have my misgivings that we 
were not yielding ourselves more to the ardor of the pursuit 
than stimulated by any love of justice.” 

While they were thus talking, the others had passed the 
little wicket and entered the garden of the cottage. Struck 


CONSULTATION. 


561 


by the quietness and the unlighted windows, they knocked 
hastily at the door. A question and answer revealed all, 
and the doctor called out aloud, “They are off! They are 
away ! ” 

Young Layton pressed Quackinboss’s hand, and whis- 
pered, “Thank Heaven for it!” 

If Winthi-op laughed heartily at an escape that struck him 
as so cleverly effected, the doctor, far more eager in pursuit 
than the others, passed into the house to interrogate the 
people, — learn when and how and in what direction they had 
fled, and trace, if so it might be, the cause of this sudden 
departure. 

“See,” cried he, as the others entered the drawing-room, — 
“see what a sudden retreat it has been ! They were at their 
coffee; here is her shawl, too, just as she may have thrown 
it off ; and here a heap of papers and letters, half burned, 
on the hearth.” 

“One thing is clear enough,” said Alfred; “they discov- 
ered that they had lost the battle, and they have abandoned 
the field.” 

“What do I see here?” cried the doctor, as he picked up 
a half-burned sheet of paper from the mass. “ This is my 
own writing ; my application to the Patent Office, when I 
was prosecuting my discovery of corrugated steel! When 
and how could it have come here ? ” 

“Who can ‘My dear father’ be?” asked Quackinboss, 
examining a letter which he had lifted from the floor. “ Oh, 
here ’s his name: ‘ Captain Nicholas Holmes ’ — ” 

“Nick Holmes!” exclaimed the doctor; “the fellow who 
stole my invention, and threw me into a madhouse! What 
of him ? Who writes to him as ‘ dear father ’ ? ” 

“Our widow, no less,” said the Colonel. “It is a few 
lines to say she is just setting out for Florence, and will be 
with him within the week.” 

“And this scoundrel was her father!” muttered the old 
doctor. “ Only think of all the scores that we should have 
had to settle if we had had the luck to be here an hour ago! 
I thrashed him once in the public streets, it ’s true, but we 
are far from being quits yet. Come, let ’s lose no time, but 
after them at once.” 


86 


562 


ONE OE THEM. 


Alfred made no reply, but turned a look on Quackinboss,. 
as though to bespeak his interference. 

“Well, sir,” said the Colonel, slowly, “so long as the 
pursuit involved a something to find out, no man was hotter 
arter it than I was; but now that we know all, that we 
have baffled our adversaries and beaten ’em, I ain’t a-goin’ 
to distress myself for a mere vengeance.” 

“Which means that these people are to go at large, free 
to practise their knaveries on others, and carry into other 
families the misery we have seen them inflict here. Is that 
your meaning?” asked the doctor, angrily. 

“I can’t tell what they are a-goin’ to do hereafter, nor, 
maybe, can you either, sir. It may be, that with changed 
hearts they’ll try another way of livin’; it may be that 
they ’ll see roguery ain’t the best thing; it may be — who ’s 
to say how ? — that all they have gone through of trouble and 
care and anxiety has made them long since sick of such a 
wearisome existence, and that, though not very strong in 
virtue, they are right glad to be out of the pains of vice, 
whatever and wherever they may be. At all events. Shaver 
Quackinboss has done with ’em, and if it was only a-goin’ 
the length of the garden to take them this minute, I ’d jest 
say, ‘ No, tell ’em to slope off, and leave me alone.’ ” 

“Let me tell you, sir, these are not your home maxims, 
and, for my part, I like Lynch law better than lax justice,” 
said the doctor, angrily. 

“Lynch law has its good and its bad side,” said Quackin- 
boss, “and, mayhap, if you come to consider the thing 
coolly, you ’ll see that if I was rejecting rigid legality here, 
it was but to take the benefit of Judge Lynch, only this time 
for mercy, and not for punishment.” 

“Ah, there is something in that! ” cried the doctor. “You 
have made a stronger case for yourself than I looked for ;, 
still, I owed that fellow a vengeance! ” 

“It’s the only debt a man is dishonored in the payin’, 
sir. You know far more of life than I do, but did you 
ever meet the man yet that was sorry for having forgiven an 
injury? I’m not sayin’ that he mightn’t have felt disap- 
pointed or discouraged by the result, — his enemy, as he’d 
call him, mightn’t have turned out what he ought; but that 


CONSULTATION. 


563 


ain’t the question: did you ever see one man who could say, 
after the lapse of years, ‘ I wish I had borne more malice, 
— I’m sorry I was n’t more cruel ’ ? ” 

“Let them go, and let us forget them,” said the old man, 
as he turned and left the room. 

Young Layton grasped the Colonel’s hand, and shook it 
warmly, as he said, “This victory is all your own.” 


CHAPTER IX. 


WORDS OF GOOD CHEER. 

When the key-note of some long-sought mystery has 
sounded, there is a strange fascination in going over and 
over the theme, now wondering why we had not been more 
struck by this or that fact, how we could have overlooked 
the importance of this incident or that coincidence. Trivial 
events come up to memory as missing links in the chain of 
proof, and small circumstances and chance words are brought 
up to fill the measure of complete conviction. 

It was thus that this party of four sat almost till daybreak 
talking over the past. Each had some era to speak of as 
especially his own. Winthrop could tell of Godfrey Hawke 
when he came a young man to the States, and married his 
niece, the belle and the heiress of her native city. He 
remembered all the praises bestowed upon the young Eng- 
lishman’s manners and accomplishments, together with the 
graver forebodings of others, who had remarked his inordi- 
nate love of play and his indifference as to the company in 
which he indulged it. Next came the doctor, with his recol- 
lections of the man broken down by dissipation and excess, 
and at last dying of poison. There was but little, indeed, 
to recall the handsome Godfrey Hawke in the attenuated 
figure and distorted countenance of that miserable de- 
bauchee; but there were chance traits of manner that 
brought up the man to Winthrop’s mind. There were also 
on the scene his beautiful wife, at that time in the fulness 
of her beauty. What a charm of gentleness, too, did she 
possess ! — how meekly and patiently did she bear herself 
under provocations that seemed too great for human endur- 
ance! The doctor had to own that she actually forfeited 
some of his sympathy by the impression she gave him of 


WORDS OF GOOD CHEER. 


565 


being one deficient in a nice sense of self-esteem, and want- 
ing in that element of resistance without which there is no 
real dignity of nature. “She seemed to me,’’ said he, “too 
craven, too abject by half, — one of those who are born to be 
the subject of a tyranny, and who, in their very submission, 
appear to court the wanton cruelty of an ‘ oppressor. ’ How 
rightly I read her!’’ cried he; “how truly I deciphered the 
inscription on her heart! and yet. I’ll be sworn, no man 
living could have detected under that mask of gentleness this 
woman of long-pondering craft, this deeply designing 
plotter ! ” 

“Quackinboss and I saw her under another aspect,” said 
Alfred. “ She was depressed and sad, but only so much so 
as gave an added charm to the grace of her captivations, 
and made her every effort to please appear somewhat of a 
sacrifice of herself for those around her.” 

“Well, ain’t it strange, gentlemen,” said Quackinboss, 
“but it’s a fact, she never deceived me? I remember the 
day of our visit at Marlia; after that adventure with the 
dog she fainted, and I took her up in my arms and carried 
her to the house. I thought, by course, she was insensible. 
Not a bit of it; she rallied enough to open her eyes, and 
give me one of the most wonderful looks ever I see in my 
life. It was just like saying, ‘ Shaver, are you quite certain 
that you have n’t got in your arms one of the loveliest crea- 
tures as ever was formed? Are you sure. Shaver Quackin- 
boss, that you are ever to have such another piece of luck as 
this ? ’ And so certain was I that I heerd these very words in 
my ear, that I said aloud, ‘ Darn me pale blue if I don’t wish 
the house was half a mile away! ’ And the words wasn’t 
well out than she burst out a-laughin’, — such a hearty, joy- 
ous laugh, too, that I knew in my heart she had neither pain 
nor ache, and was only a-foxin’. Well, gentlemen, we 
always had a way of lookin’ at each other arter that was 
quite peculiar; it was sayin’, ‘Never fear, all’s on honor 
here.’ That was, at least, how I meant it, and I have a 
notion that she understood me as well. I have a strong 
notion that we understand these women critturs better than 
you Britishers ! ” 

“You must leave me out of the category of the shrewd 


666 


ONE OF THEM. 


ones, however/* said Winthrop. “I saw her but once in 
my life, and yet I never came away from a visit with the 
same amount of favorable impression. She met me like an 
old friend, but at the same time there was a delicacy and 
reserve about her that seemed to say, ‘ It is for you to ratify 
this compact if you like. When you sign the treaty, it is 
finished.’** 

From the discussion of the past they proceeded to the 
future, upon which all felt that Winthrop could speak 
with most authority, since he was Clara’s kinsman and 
guardian. 

“What do you mean to do by the gal, sir?** asked the 
Colonel. 

“I intend to see her as soon as I can, give her the good 
news of her accession to fortune, and leave her to choose 
whether she will come back with me to the States, or would 
prefer that I should remain with her in Europe.** 

“And ain’t there any other alternative possible in the 
case, sir?” asked Quackinboss. “Doesn’t it strike you as 
just possible that she might say ‘No’ to each of these pro- 
posals, and fix another one for herself ? ” 

“I don’t quite understand you. Colonel,” said the other. 

“I ain’t a-goin’ to talk riddles, sir. What I mean is, that 
the young woman may have other thoughts in her head than 
either X)f your plans; and now I’ll call upon my honor’ble 
friend, Mr. Alfred Layton, to address the House.” 

Crimson with shame and confusion, young Layton turned 
an imploring look at Quackinboss; but the Colonel was 
indifferent to the appeal, and waved his hand as if bespeak- 
ing silence. 

“It is rather for me to speak here,” said the doctor. 
“My son has to begin life with a large arrear of his father’s 
faults to redeem. He has to restore to our name, by con- 
duct and honorable bearing, the fair repute that once 
attached to it. Honest industry is the safe and sure road 
to this, and there is no other. He has promised to try and 
bring back to me in his name the suffrages of that univer- 
sity which I forfeited in mine. If he succeed, he will have 
made me proud of him.” 

“I like that,” broke in Quackinboss. “Square it all first 


WORDS OF GOOD CHEER. 


667 


with them critturs in the college, and then think of a wife. 
Go at it, sir, and work like a nigger; there ain’t nothing 
will give you such courage as the very fatigue of a hard 
day’s work. When you lie down at night so dead beat 
that you could n’t do more, you ’ll feel that you ’ve earned 
your rest, and you ’ll not lie awake with misgivin’s and 
fancies, but you ’ll sleep with a good conscience, and arise 
refreshed the next mornin’.” 

“Alfred and I settled it all between us last night,” said 
the doctor. “There was but one point we could not arrange 
to our satisfaction. We are largely indebted to you — ” 

“Stop her! ” cried the Colonel, as though he were giving 
the word from the paddle-box of a steamer, — “stop her! I 
ain’t in a humor to be angry with any one. I feel as how, 
when the world goes so well as it has done lately with us all, 
that it would be main ungrateful to show a peevish or dis- 
contented spirit, and I don’t believe that there ’s a way to 
rile me but one, — jest one, — and you ’ve a-hit on’t. Yes, 
sir, you have ! ” 

Quackinboss began his speech calmly enough, but before 
he finished it his voice assumed a hard and harsh tone very 
rare with him. 

“Remember, my dear and true-hearted friend,” broke in 
Alfred, “that it’s only of one debt we are eager to acquit 
ourselves. Of all that we owe you in affection and in grati- 
tude, we are satisfied to stand in your books as long as we 
live.” 

“I ain’t a-goin’ to square accounts,” said the Colonel; 
“but if I was, I know well that I’d stand with a long 
balance ag’in’ me. Meat and drink, sir, is good things, but 
they ain’t as good for a man as liberal thoughts, kind feel- 
in’s, and a generous trust in one’s neighbor. Well, I’ve 
picked up a little of all three from that young man there, 
and a smatterin’ of other things besides that I ’d never have 
lamed when barking oak in the bush.” 

Old Layton shook his head in dissent, and muttered, — 

“You may cancel the bond, but we cannot forget the 
debt.” 

“Let me arbitrate between you,” said Winthrop. 

“Leave the question at rest till this day twelvemonth. 


568 


ONE OF THEM. 


tet each give his word not to approach it ; and then time, 
that will have taught us many a thing in the mean while, will 
supply the best expedient.” 

They gave their hands to each other in solemn pledge, and 
not a word was uttered, and the compact was ratified. 

“We shall leave this for England to-night,” said the 
doctor. 

“Not, surely, till you come as far as Milan first?” asked 
Winthrop. 

“He ’s right, — he ’s quite right ! ” said Quackinboss. “If 
a man has a Polar voyage afore him, it ’s no way to harden 
his constitution by passin’ a winter at Palermo. Ain’t I 
right, sir?” 

It was not diflScult to see that Alfred Layton did not yield 
a very willing assent to this arrangement ; but he stole away 
from the room unperceived, and carried his sorrow with him 
to his chamber. He had scarcely closed his door, however, 
when he heard Quackinboss’ s voice outside. 

“ I ain’t a-comin’ to disturb you,” said he, entering ; “ but 
I have a word or two to say, and, mayhap, can’t find another 
time to say it. You ’ll be wantin’ a trifle or so to begin with 
before you can turn to earn something for yourself. You ’ll 
find it there in that pocket-book, — look to it now, sir, I ’ll 
have no opposition, — it ’s the best investment ever I had. 
You ’ll marry this girl ; yes, there ain’t a doubt about that, 
and mayhap, one of these days I ’ll be a-comin’ to you to ask 
favorable terms for my cousin Obadiah B. Quackinboss, that ’s 
located down there in your own diggin’s, and you ’ll say, ^ Well, 
Colonel, I ain’t forgotten old times ; we was thick as thieves 
once on a time, and so fix it all your own way.’ ” 

Alfred could but squeeze the other’s hand as he turned 
away, his heart too full for him to speak. 

“ I like your father, sir,” resumed Quackinboss ; “he’s a 
grand fellow, and if it war n’t for some of his prejudices 
about the States, I’d say I never met a finer man.” 

Young Layton saw well how by this digression the Amer- 
ican was adroitly endeavoring to draw the conversation 
into another direction, and one less pregnant with exciting 
emotions. 

“ Yes, sir, he ain’t fair to us,” resumed the Colonel. “ He 


WORDS OF GOOD CHEER. 569 

forgets that we ’re a new people, and jest as hard at work to 
build up our new civilization as our new cities.” 

“ There ’s one thing he never does, never can forget, — that 
the warmest, fastest friend his son ever met with in life came 
from your country.” 

“ Well, sir, if there be anything we Yankees are famed for, 
it is the beneficial employment of our spare capital. We 
don’t sit down content with three-and-a-half or four per 
cent interest, like you Britishers, we look upon that as a 
downright waste; and it’s jest the same with our feelin’s 
as our dollars, though you of the old country don’t think 
so. We can’t afford to wait thirty, or five-and- thirty years 
for a friendship. We want lively sales, sir, and quick re- 
turns. We want to know if a man mean kindly by us 
afore we ’ve both of us got too old to care for it. That ’s 
how I come to like you first, and I war n’t so far out in 
thinkin’ that I ’d made a good investment.” 

Alfred could only smile good-humoredly at the speech, and 
the other went on, — 

“You Britishers begin by givin’ us Yankees certain 
national traits and habits, and you won’t let us be any- 
thing but what you have already fashioned us in your own 
minds. But, arter all, I’d have you to remember we are 
far more like your people of a century back than you your- 
selves are. We ain’t as mealy-mouthed and as p’lite and 
as smooth-tongued as the moderns. But if we ’re plain of 
speech, we are simple of habit ; and what you so often set 
down as rudeness in us ain’t anything more than our wish 
to declare that we ain’t in want of any one’s help or as- 
sistance, but we are able to shift for ourselves, and are 
independent.” 

Quackinboss arose, as he said this, with the air of a man 
who had discharged his conscience of a load. He had often 
smarted under what he felt to be the unfair appreciation of 
the old doctor for America, and he thought that by instilling 
sounder principles into his son’s mind, the seed would one 
day or other produce good fruit. 

From this he led Alfred to talk of his plans for the future. 
It was his father’s earnest desire that he should seek collegi- 
ate honors in the university which had once repudiated him- 


570 


ONE OF THEM. 


self. The old man did not altogether arraign the justice of 
the act, but he longed to see his name once more in a place 
of honor, and that the traditions of his own triumphs should 
be renewed in his son’s. 

“ If I succeed,” said Alfred, “ it will be time enough after- 
wards to say what next.” 

“You’ll marry that gal, sir, and come out to the States. 
I see it all as if I read it in a book.” 

Alfred shook his head doubtfully, and was silent. 

“Well, I’m a-goin’ to Milan with Harvey Winthrop; and 
when I see the country, as we say, I ’ll tell you about the 
clearin’.” 

“You’ll write to me too? ” 

“ That I will. It may be that she won’t have outright for- 
gotten me, and if so, she ’ll be more friendly with me than 
an uncle she has never seen nor known about. I ’ll soon find 
out if her head ’s turned by all this good luck, or if, as I hope, 
the fortune has fallen on one as deserved it. Mayhap she ’ll 
be for goin’ over to America at once ; mayhap she ’ll have a 
turn for doing it grand here, in Europe. Harvey Winthrop 
says she ’ll have money enough to buy up one of these little 
German States, and be a princess if she likes ; at all events 
you shall hear, and then in about a month hence look out for 
me some fine evening, for I tell you, sir, I’ve got so used to 
it now, that I can’t get through the day without a talk with 
you ; and though the doctor and I do have a bout now and 
then over the Yankees, I ’d like to see the man who ’d abuse 
America before him, and say one word against England in 
the face of Shaver Quackinboss.” 


CHAPTER X. 


THE LETTER FROM ALFRED LAYTON. 

When Sir William Heathcote learned that Mrs. Morris had 
quitted his house, gone without one word of adieu, his mind 
reverted to all the bygone differences with his son, and to 
Charles did he at once ascribe the cause of her sudden flight. 
His health was in that state in which agitation becomes a 
serious complication, and for several days he was danger- 
ously ill, violent paroxysms of passion alternating with long 
intervals of apathy and unconsciousness. The very sight of 
Charles in his room would immediately bring on one of his 
attacks of excitement, and even the presence of May Leslie 
herself brought him no alleviation of suffering. It was in 
vain that she assured him that Mrs. Morris left on reasons 
known only to herself; that even to May herself she had 
explained nothing, written nothing. The old man obsti- 
nately repeated his conviction that she had been made the 
victim of an intrigue, and that Charles was at the bottom of 
it. How poor May strove to combat this unjust and un- 
worthy suspicion, how eagerly she defended him she loved, 
and how much the more she learned to love for the defending 
of him. Charles, too, in this painful emergency, displayed 
a moderation and self-control for which May had never given 
him credit. Not a hasty word or impatient expression 
escaped him, and he was unceasing in every attention to his 
father which he could render without the old man’s knowl- 
edge. It was a very sad household ; on every side there was 
sickness and sorrow, but few of those consolations that alle- 
viate pain or lighten suffering. Sir William desired to be 
left almost always alone ; Charles walked moodily by himself 
in the garden ; and May kept her room, and seldom left it. 
Lord Agincourt came daily to ask after them, but could see 


572 


ONE OF THEM. 


no one. Even Charles avoided meeting him, and merely 
sent him a verbal message, or a few hasty lines with a 
pencil. 

Upwards of a week had passed in this manner, when, 
among the letters from the post, which Charles usually 
opened and only half read through, came a very long epistle 
from Alfred Layton. His name was on the corner of the 
envelope, and, seeing it, Charles tossed the letter carelessly 
across the table to May, saying, in a peevish irony, “You 
may care to see what your old admirer has to say ; as for me, 
I have no such curiosity.” 

She paid no attention to the rude speech, and went on 
with her breakfast. 

“ You don’t mean to say,” cried he, in the same pettish 
tone, “ that you don’t care what there may be in that letter? 
It may have some great piece of good fortune to announce. 
He may have become a celebrity, a rich man, — Heaven 
knows what. This may contain the offer of his hand. 
Come, May, don’t despise destiny ; break the seal and read 
your fate.” 

She made no answer, but, rising from the table, left the 
room. 

It was one of those days on which young Heathcote’s 
temper so completely mastered him that in anger with him- 
self he would quarrel with his dearest friend. Fortunately, 
they were now very rare with him, but when they did come 
he was their slave. When on service and in the field, these 
were the intervals in which his intrepid braveiy, stimulated 
to very madness, had won him fame and honor ; and none, 
not even himself, knew that some of his most splendid suc- 
cesses were reckless indifference to life. His friends, how- 
ever, learned to remark that Heathcote was no companion at 
such times, and they usually avoided him. 

He sat on at the breakfast-table, not eating, or indeed 
well conscious where he was, when the door was hastily 
thrown open, and Agincourt entered. “ Well, old fellow,” 
cried he, “I have unearthed you at last. Your servants 
have most nobly resisted all my attempts to force a passage 
or bribe my way to you, and it was only by a stratagem that 
I contrived to slip past the porter and pass in.” 


THE LETTER FROM ALFRED LAYTON. 


573 


“You have cost the fellow his place, then,” said Charles, 
rudely; “he shall be sent away to-day.” 

“ Nonsense, Charley ; none of this moroseness with me.” 

“And why not with youf’^ cried the other, violently. 
“ Why not with you? You’ll not presume to say that the 
accident of your station gives you the privilege of intruding 
where others are denied? You ’ll not pretend that?” 

A deep flush covered the young man’s face, and his eyes 
flashed angrily ; but just as quickly a softened expression 
came over his countenance, and in a voice of mingled kind- 
ness and bantering, he said, “ I ’ll tell you what I ’ll pretend, 
Charley ; I ’ll pretend to say that you love me too sincerely 
to mean to offend me, even when a harsh speech has escaped 
you in a moment of haste or anger.” 

“Offend you!” exclaimed Heathcote, with the air of a 
man utterly puzzled and confused, — “offend you! How 
could I dream of offending you? You were not used to 
be touchy, Agincourt; what, in the name of wonder, could 
make you fancy I meant offence?” 

The look of his face, the very accent in which he spoke, 
were so unaffectedly honest and sincere that the youth saw 
at once how unconsciously his rude speech had escaped him, 
and that not a trace of it remained in his memory. 

“I have been so anxious to see you, Charley,” said he, in 
his usual tone, “for some days back. I wanted to consult 
you about O’Shea. My uncle has given me an appointment 
for him, and I can’t find out where he is. Then there ’s 
another thing; that strange Yankee, Quackinboss, — you 
remember him at Marlia, long ago. He found out, by some 
means, that I was at the hotel here, and he writes to beg I ’ll 
engage I can’t say how many rooms for himself and some 
friends who are to arrive this evening. I don’t think you 
are listening to me, are you?” 

“Yes, I hear you, — go on.” 

“I mean to clear out of the diggin’s if these Yankees 
come, and you must tell me where to go. I don’t dislike the 
‘ Kernal,’ but his following would be awful, eh?” 

“Yes, quite so.” 

“What do you mean by ‘ Yes ’ ? Is it that you agree with 
me, or that you have n’t paid the slightest attention to one 
word I ’ve said ? ” 


574 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Look here, Agincourt,” said Charley, passing his arm 
inside the other’s, and leading him up and down the room. 
“I wish I had not changed my mind; I wish I had gone to 
India. I have utterly failed in all that I hoped to have done 
here, and I have made my poor father more unhappy than 
ever.” 

“Is he so determined to marry this widow, then?” 

“ She is gone. She left us more than a week ago, with- 
out saying why or for whither. I have not the slightest 
clew to her conduct, nor can I guess where she is.” 

^ “When was it she left this?” 

“On Wednesday week last.” 

“The very day O’Shea started.” 

They each looked steadfastly at the other; and at last 
Agincourt said, — 

“Wouldn’t that be a strange solution of the riddle, Char- 
ley ? On the last night we dined together you may remem- 
ber I promised to try what I could make of the negotiation ; 
and so I praised the widow, extolled her beauty, and hinted 
that she was exactly the clever sort of woman that helps a 
man on to fortune.” 

“ How I wish I had gone to India ! ” muttered Charles, 
and so immersed in his own cares as not to hear one word 
the other was saying. 

“If I were to talk in that way, Charley, you ’d be the very 
first to call out. What selfishness! what an utter indiffer- 
ence to all feelings but your own! You are merely dealing 
with certain points that affect yourself, and you forget a girl 
that loves you.” 

“Am I so sure of that? Am I quite certain that an old 
attachment — she owned to me herself that she liked him, 
that tutor fellow of yours — has not a stronger hold on her 
heart than I have? There ’s a letter from him. I have n’t 
opened it. I have a sort of half suspicion that when I do 
read it I ’ll have a violent desire to shoot him. It is just as 
if I knew that, inside that packet there, was an insult await- 
ing me, and yet I ’d like to spare myself the anger it will 
cause me when I break the seal ; and so I walk round the 
table and look at the letter, and turn it over, and at last — ” 
With the word he tore open the envelope, and unfolded the 


THE LETTER FROM ALFRED LAYTON. 575. 

note. “Has he not given me enough of it? One, two, 
three, ay, four pages ! When a man writes at such length, 
he is certain to be either very tiresome or very disagree- 
able, not to say that I never cared much for your friend Mr. 
Layton; he gave himself airs with us poor unlettered 
folk — 

“Come, come, Charley; if you were not in an ill mood, 
you ’d never say anything so ungenerous.” 

It was possible that he, felt the rebuke to be just, for he 
did not reply, but, seating himself in the window, began to 
read the letter. More than once did Agincourt make some 
remark, or ask some question. Of even his movements of 
impatience Heathcote took no note, as, deeply immersed in 
the contents of the letter, he continued to read on. 

“Well, I HI leave you for a while, Charley,” said he, at 
last; “perhaps I may drop in to see you this evening.” 

“Wait; stay where you are!” cried Heathcote, abruptly, 
and yet not lifting his eyes from the lines before him. 
“What a story! — what a terrible story!” muttered he to 
himself. Then beckoning to Agincourt to come near, he 
caught him by the arm, and in a low whisper said, “Who 
do you think she turns out to be ? The widow of Godfrey 
Hawke!” 

“I never so much as heard of Godfrey Hawke.” 

“Oh, I forgot; you were an infant at the time. But 
surely you must have heard or read of that murder at Jer- 
sey? — a well-known gambler, named Hawke, poisoned by 
his associates, while on a visit at his house.” 

“And who is she?” 

“Mrs. Penthony Morris. Here’s the whole story. But 
begin at the beginning.” 

Seated side by side, they now proceeded to read the letter 
over together, nor did either speak a word till it was 
finished. 

“ And to be so jolly with all that on her mind ! ” exclaimed 
Agincourt. “Why, she must have the courage of half a 
dozen men.” 

“I now begin to read the meaning of many things I never 
could make out: her love of retirement, — she, a woman 
essentially of the world and society, estranging herself from* 


676 


ONE OF THEM. 


every one ; her strange relations with Clara, a thing which 
used to puzzle me beyond measure ; and lastly, her remark- 
able injunction to me when we parted, her prayer to be for- 
gotten, or, at least, never mentioned.” 

“You did not tell me of that.” 

“Nor was it my intention to have done so now; it escaped 
me involuntarily.” 

“And what is to become of Clara?” 

“Don’t you see that she has found an uncle, — this Mr. 
Winthrop, — with whom, and our friend Quackinboss, she 
is to arrive at Rome to-night or to-morrow?” 

“Oh, these are the friends for whom I was to bespeak an 
apartment; so, then, I ’ll not leave my hotel. I ’m delighted 
to have such neighbors.” 

“May ought to go and meet her; she ought to bring her 
here, and of course she will do so. But, first of all, to 
show her this letter ; or shall I merely tell her certain parts 
of it?” 

“I ’d let her read every line of it, and I ’d give it to Sir 
William also.” 

Charles started at the counsel; but after a moment he 
said, “I believe you are right. The sooner we clear away 
these mysteries, the sooner we shall deal frankly together.” 

“I have come to beg your pardon. May,” said Charles, as 
he stood on the sill of her door. “I could scarcely hope 
you ’d grant it save from very pity for me, for I have gone 
through much this last day or two. But, besides your 
pardon, I want your advice. When you have read over 
that letter, — read it twice, — I’ll come back again.” 

May made him no answer, but, taking the letter, turned 
away. He closed the door noiselessly, and left her. What- 
ever may be the shock a man experiences on learning that 
the individual with whom for a space of time he has been 
associating on terms of easy intimacy should turn out to be 
one notorious in crime or infamous in character, to a 
woman the revulsion of feeling under like circumstances 
is tenfold more painful. It is not alone that such casual- 
ties are so much more rare, but in the confidences between 
women there is so much more interchange of thought and 
feeling that the shock is proportionately greater. That a 


THE LETTER FROM ALFRED LAYTON. 577 

man should be arraigned before a tribunal is a stain, but to 
a woman it is a brand burned upon her forever. 

There had been a time when May and Mrs. Morris lived 
together as sisters. May had felt all the influence of a 
character more formed than her own, and of one who, gifted 
and accomplished as she was, knew how to extend that 
influence with consummate craft. In those long-ago days 
May had confided to her every secret of her heart, — her 
early discontents with Charles Heathcote; her pettish mis- 
givings about the easy confidence of his security ; her half 
flirtation with young Layton, daily inclining towards some- 
thing more serious still. She recalled to mind, too, how 
Mrs. Morris had encouraged her irritation against Charles, 
magnifying all his failings into faults, and exaggerating 
the natural indolence of his nature into the studied indiffer- 
ence of one “sure of his bond.” And last of all she thought 
of her in her relations with Clara, — poor Clara, whose heart, 
overflowing with affection, had been repelled and schooled 
into a mere mockery of sentiment. 

That her own fortune had been wasted and dissipated 
by this woman she well knew. Without hesitation or 
inquiry. May had signed everything that was put before her, 
and now she really could not tell what remained to her of all 
that wealth of which she used to hear so much and care so 
little. 

These thoughts tracked her along every line of the letter, 
and through all the terrible details she was reading; the 
woman herself, in her craft and subtlety, absorbed her entire 
attention. Even when she had read to the end, and learned 
the tidings of Clara’s fortune, her mind would involuntarily 
turn back to Mrs. Penthony Morris and her wiles. It was 
in an actual terror at the picture her mind had drawn of 
this deep designing woman that Charles found her sitting 
with the letter before her, and her eyes staring wildly and 
on vacancy. 

“I see. May,” said he, gently taking her hand, and seat- 
ing himself at her side, this dreadful letter has shocked 
you, as it has shocked me; but remember, dearest, we are 
only looking back at a peril we have all escaped. She has 
not separated us ; she has not involved us in the disgrace of 

37 


578 


ONE OF THEM. 


relationship to her ; she is not one of us ; she is not anything 
even to poor Clara ; and though we may feel how narrowly 
we have avoided all our dangers, let us be grateful for that 
safety for which we really contributed nothing ourselves. 
Is it not so, dearest May? We have gained the harbor, and 
never knew that we had crossed a quicksand.” 

“And, after all, Charles, painful as all thi;3 is now, and 
must be when remembered hereafter, it is not without its 
good side. We will all draw closer to each other, and love 
more fondly where we can trust implicitly.” 

“And you forgive me. May?” 

“Certainly not — if you assume forgiveness in that 
fashion ! ” 

Now, though this true history records that May Leslie 
arose with a deep flush upon her cheek, and her massy roll 
of glossy hair somewhat dishevelled, there is no mention of 
what the precise fashion was in which Charles Heathcote 
sued out his pardon; nor, indeed, with our own narrow 
experiences of such incidents, do we care to hazard a 
conjecture. 

“And now as to my father. May. How much of this 
letter shall we tell him ? ” 

“All ; every word of it. It will pain him, as it has pained 
us, or even more; but, that pain once over, he will come 
back, without one reserved thought, to all his old affection 
for us, and we shall be happy as we used to be.” 


CHAPTER XI. 


AN EAGER GUEST. 

When Lord Agincourt returned to his hotel, he was aston- 
ished to see waiters passing in and out of his apartment 
with trays covered with dishes, decanters of wine, and 
plates of fruit; but as he caught the deep tone of O’Shea’s 
voice from within, he quickly understood how that free- 
and-easy personage was making himself at home. 

“Oh, it is here you are! ” said Agincourt, entering; “and 
Charley and 1 have been just speculating whether you might 
not have been expiating some of your transgressions in an 
Austrian jail.” 

“I am here, as you perceive,” said the O’Shea, wiping 
his lips with his napkin, “and doing indifferently well, too. 
By the way they treat me, I ’m given to believe that your 
credit stands well with the hotel people.” ^ 

“When did you arrive? ” 

“An hour ago; just in time to make them roast that 
hedgehog. They call it a sucking-pig, but I know it ’s a 
hedgehog, though I was eight-and-forty hours without 
eating.” 

“How was that? ” 

“This way,” said he, as he drew out the lining of his 
pockets, and showed that they were perfectly empty. “I 
just left myself enough for the diligence fare from Bologna, 
and one roll of bread and a pint of wine as I started ; since 
that I have tasted nothing but the pleasures of hope. Don’t 
talk to me, therefore, or talk away, but don’t expect me to 
answer you for fifteen minutes more.” 

Agincourt nodded, and seated himself at the table, in 
quiet contemplation of the O’Shea’s performance. “I got 
an answer to my letter about you,” said he, at length, and 


580 


ONE OF THEM. 


rather curious to watch the struggle between his hunger 
and his curiosity. 

O’Shea gave a nod, as though to say “Proceed;” but 
Agincourt said nothing. 

“Well, go on!” cried O’Shea, as he helped himself to 
half a duck. 

“It’s a long-winded sort of epistle,” said Agincourt, 
now determined to try his patience to the uttermost. “ I ’ll 
have to show it to you.” 

“Is it Yes or No?” asked O’Shea, eagerly, and almost 
choking himself with the effort to speak. 

“That ’s pretty much how you take it. You see, my uncle 
is one of those formal old fellows trained in official life, 
and who haVe a horror of doing anything against the tradi- 
tions of a department — ” 

“Well, well, well! but can’t he say whether he ’ll give me 
something or not?” 

“So he does say it, but you inten-upt me at every 
moment. When you have read through his letter, you ’ll 
be able to appreciate the difficulties of his position, and 
also decide on what you think most conducive to your own 
interests.” 

O’Shea groaned heavily, as he placed the remainder of the 
duck on his plate. 

“What of your duel? How did it go off?” 

“Beautifully.” 

“Did your man behave well?” 

“Beautifully.” 

“Was he hit?” 

A shake of the head. 

“Was the Frenchman wounded?” 

“Here — flesh wound — nothing serious.” 

“That ’s all right. I ’ll leave you now, to finish your 
lunch in quiet. You ’ll find me on the Pincian when you 
stroll out.” 

“Look here! Don’t go! Wait a bit! I want you to tell 
me in one word, — can I get anything or not? ” 

The intense earnestness of his face as he spoke would 
have made any further tantalizing such a cruelty that Agin- 
court answered frankly, “Yes, old fellow, they ’ve made you 


AN EAGER GUEST. 


581 

a Boundary Commissioner; I forget where, but you’re to 
have a thousand a year, and some allowances besides.” 

“This is n’t a joke? You ’re telling me truth? ” asked he, 
trembling all over with anxiety. 

“On honor,” said Agincourt, giving his hand. 

You re a trump, then; upon my conscience, you ’re a 

trump. Here I am now, close upon eight-and-thirty, I 

don’t look it by five years, but I am, — and after sitting for 
four sessions in Parliament, not a man did I ever find would 
do me a hand’s turn, but it ’s to a brat of a boy I owe the 
only bit of good fortune of my whole life. That ’s what I 
call hard, — very hard.” 

“I don’t perceive that it ’s very complimentary to myself, 
either,” said Agincourt, struggling to keep down a laugh. 
But O’Shea was far too full of his own cares to have any 
thought for another’s, and he went on muttering below his 
breath about national injustice and Saxon jealousy. 

“You ’ll accept this, then? Shall I say so?” 

“I believe you will! I’d like to see myself refuse a 
thousand a year and pickings.” 

“I suspect I know what you have in your mind, too. I ’ll 
wager a pony that I guess it. You ’re planning to marry 
that pretty widow, and carry her out with you.” 

O'Shea grew crimson over face and forehead, and stared 
at the other almost defiantly, without speaking. 

“Ain’t I right?” asked Agincourt, somewhat discon- 
certed by the look that was bent upon him. 

“You are not right; you were never more wrong in your 
life.” 

“May be so; but you '11 find it a hard task to persuade 
me so.” 

“I don’t want to persuade you of anything; but this I 
know, that you ’ve started a subject there that I won’t talk 
on with you or any one else. Do you mind me now? I ’m 
willing enough to owe you the berth you offered me, but not 
upon conditions; do you perceive — no conditions.” 

This was not a very intelligible speech, but Agincourt 
could detect the drift of the speaker, and caught him 
cordially by the hand, and said, “If I ever utter a word that 
offends you, I pledge my honor it will be through inadver- 
tence, and not intention.” 


582 


ONE OF THEM. 


“ That will do. I ’m your debtor, now, and without mis- 
givings. I want to see young Heathcote as soon as I can. 
Would I find him at home now? ” 

“I T1 get him over here to dine with us. We T1 have a 
jolly evening together, and drink a boundless success to the 
Boundary Commissioner. If I don’t mistake, too, there ’s 
another good fellow here would like to be one of us.” 

“Another! who can he be?” 

“Here he comes to answer for himself.” And, as he 
spoke, Quackinboss lounged into the room, with his hands 
deep in his trousers-pockets, and his hat on his head. 

“Well, sir, I hope I see you in good health,” said he to 
Agincourt. “You’ve grown a bit since we met last, and 
you ain’t so washy-lookin’ as you used to be.” 

“Thanks. I ’m all right in health, and very glad to see 
you, besides. Is not my friend here an old acquaint- 
ance of yours, — the O’Shea? ” 

“The O’Shea,” said Quackinboss, slowly, laying great 
stress upon the definite article. 

“The O’Shea! Yes, sir.” 

“You may remember that we met at Lucca some time 
back,” said O’Shea, who felt that the moment was embar- 
rassing and unpleasant. 

“Yes, sir. ‘ The Shaver ’ recollects you,” said he, in a 
slow, drawling tone; “and if I ain’t mortal mistaken, 
there ’s a little matter of account unsettled between us.” 

“I ’m not aware of any dealings between us,” said O’Shea, 
haughtily. 

“Well, sir, I am, and that comes pretty much to the 
same thing. You came over to Lucca one day to see 
young Layton, and you saw me, and we had a talk together 
about miscellaneous matters, and we didn’t quite agree, 
and we parted with the understandin’ that we ’d go over the 
figures again, and make the total all right. I hope, sir, you 
are with me in all this ? ” 

“Perfectly. I remember it all now. I went over to 
settle a difference I had had with Layton, and you, with 
that amiable readiness for a fight that distinguishes your 
countrymen, proposed a little row on your own account; 
something — I forget what it was now — interfered with 


AN EAGER GUEST. 583 

each of us at the time, but we agreed to let it stand over and 
open for a future occasion.” 

“You talk like a printed book, sir. It’s a downright 
treat to hear you. Go on,” said the Colonel, seriously. 

“It’s my turn now,” broke in Agincourt, warmly, “and 
I must say, I expected both more good sense and more gen- 
erosity from either of you than to make the first moment of 
a friendly meeting the occasion of remembering an old 
grudge. You T1 not leave this room till you have shaken 
hands, and become — what you are well capable of being — 
good friends to each other.” 

“I have no grudge against the Colonel,” said O’Shea, 
frankly. 

“Well, sir,” said Quackinboss, slowly, “I’m thinkin’ Mr. 
Agincourt is right. As John Kandolf of Roanoke said, 

‘ The men who are ready to settle matters with the pistol are 
seldom slow to set them right on persuasion.’ Here ’s my 
hand, sir.” 

“You ’ll both dine with me to-day, I hope,” said Agin- 
court. “My friend here,” added he, taking O’Shea’s arm, 
“has just received a Government appointment, and we are 
bound to ‘ wet his commission ’ for him in some good 
claret.” 

They accepted the hospitable proposal readily, and now, 
at perfect ease together, and without one embarrassing 
thought to disturb their intercourse, they sat chatting away 
pleasantly for some time, when suddenly Quackinboss 
started up, saying, “Darn me a pale pink, if I haven’t for- 
got all that I came about. Here ’s how it was.” And as 
he spoke, he took Agincourt to one side and whispered 
eagerly in his ear. 

“But they know it all, my dear Colonel,” broke in Agin- 
court. “Charles Heathcote has had the whole story in a long 
letter from Layton. I was with him this morning when the 
post arrived, and I read the letter myself ; and, so far from ^ 
entertaining any of the doubts you fear, they are only impa- 
tient to see dear Clara once more and make her ‘ One of 
Them.’” 

“Well, sir, I’m proud to know it,” said the Colonel, “not 
only because it was my own readin’ of ’em, but whenever I 


684 


ONE OE THEM. 


hear anything good or generous, I feel as if — bein’ a human 
crittur myself — I came in for some of the credit of it. 
The doubt was never mine, sir. It was my friend, Mr. Har- 
vey Winthrop, that thought how, perhaps, there might be a 
scruple, or a hesitation, or a sort of backwardness about 
knowin’ a gal with such a dreadful story tacked to her. ‘ In 
Eu-rope, sir,’ says he, ‘ they won’t have them sort of things; 
they ain’t lik^ our people, who are noways displeased at a 
bit of notoriety.’” 

‘‘There ! — look there ! — the whole question is decided al- 
ready,” said Agincourt, as he drew the other towards the 
window and pointed to the street below. “There go the two 
girls together; they have driven off in that carriage, and 
Clara has her home once more in the midst of those who 
love her.” 

“I’m bound to say, sir,” said Quackinboss, after a 
moment’s pause, “that you Britishers are a fine people. 
You have, it is true, too many class distinctions and grades 
of rank among you, but you have a main hearty sympathy 
that teaches you to deal with human sufferin’ as a thing that 
makes all men kindred ; and whenever it ’s your lot to have 
to do a kindness, you double the benefit by the delicacy you 
throw into it.” 

“That ’s a real good fellow,” said O’Shea, as Quackinboss 
quitted the room. 

“Is he not?” cried Agincourt. “ If I ever harbor an 
ungenerous thought about Yankees, I know how to correct 
it, by remembering that he ’s ‘ One of Them.’ ” 


CHAPTER Xn. 


CONCLUSION. 

Most valued reader, can you number amongst your life ex- 
periences that very suggestive one of revisiting some spot 
where you had once sojourned pleasantly, with scarcely any 
of the surroundings which first embellished it? With all the 
instruction and self-knowledge derivable from such an in- 
cident, there is a considerable leaven of sorrow, and even 
some bitterness. It is so very hard to believe that we are 
ourselves more changed than all around. We could have 
sworn that waterfall was twice as high, and certainly the lake 
used not to be the mere pond we see it ; and the cedars, — 
surely these are not the cedars we were wont to sit under 
with Marian long ago ? Oh dear ! when I think that I once 
fancied I could pass my life in this spot, and now I am 
actually impatient for day-dawn that I may leave it ! 

With something of this humor three persons sat at sunset 
under the old beech-trees at the Bagni di Lucca. They were 
characters in this true history that we but passingly presented 
to our reader, and may well have lapsed from his memory. 
They were Mr. and Mrs. Morgan and Mr. Mosely, who 
had by the merest accident once more met and renewed 
acquaintance. 

“ My wife remembered you, sir, the moment you entered 
the table d^hote room. She said, ‘ There ’s that young man 
of Trip and Mosely’s, that we saw here — was it three years 
ago? ’ ” 

“Possibly,*’ was the dry response. “Jfy memory is 
scarcely so good.” 

“ You know I never forget a face, Tom,” broke in the 
lady. 

“ I constantly do,” said Mosely, tartly. 


586 


ONE OF THEM. 


“Yes, but you must see so many people every day of 
your life, such hordes passing in and passing out, as I said 
to Morgan, it ’s no wonder at all if he can’t remember us.” 

Mr. Mosely had just burned his finger with a lucifer-match, 
and muttered something not actually a benediction. 

“Great changes over Italy — indeed, over all Europe — 
since we met last here,” said Morgan, anxious to get discus- 
sion into a safer region. 

“ Yes, the Italians are behaving admirably ; they ’ve 
shown the world that they are fully capable of winning their 
liberty, and knowing how to employ it.” 

“ Don’t believe it, sir, — bigoted set of rascals, — it *s all 
pillage, — simple truth is, the Governments were all too good 
for them.” 

“ You’re right, Tom; perfectly right.” 

“ He’ll not have many to agree with him, then ; of that, 
madam, be well assured. The sympathies of the whole 
world are with these people.” 

“Sympathies! — I like to hear of sympathies! Why 
won’t sympathies mend the holes in their pantaloons, sir, 
and give them bread to eat ? ” 

Mosely arose with impatience, and began to draw on his 
gloves. 

“Oh, don’t go for a moment, sir,” broke in the lady. 
“I am so curious to hear if you know what became of the 
people we met the last time we were here ? ” 

“ Which of them ? ” 

“ Well — indeed, I’d like to hear about all of them.” 

“ I believe I can tell you, then. The Heathcotes are 
living in Germany. The young man is married to Miss 
Leslie, but no great catch either, for she lost about two- 
thirds of her fortune in speculation ; still, they ’ve got a 
fine place on the Elbe, near Dresden, and I saw them at the 
Opera there a few nights ago.” 

“ And that young fellow — Layton, or Leighton — ” 

“ Layton. He made a good thing of it. He married the 
girl they called Miss Hawke, with a stunning fortune ; their 
yacht is waiting for them now at Leghorn. They say he’s 
the first astronomer of the day. I can only tell you, that if 
his wife be like her picture in this year’s Exhibition, she ’s 


CONCLUSION. 


68T 


the handsomest woman in England. I heard it all from 
Colonel Quackinboss/’ 

“ And so you met Quackinboss ? ” 

“ Yes, he came out from England in Layton’s schooner, 
and is now gone down to join Garibaldi. He says, ‘ Come si 
fa? ’ is n’t such a poor devil as he once thought him ; and if 
they do determine to strike a blow for freedom, an American 
ought to be ‘ One op Them.’ ” 


V 




-J J 

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